Stories  •  of  •  the  •  South 


"Books  that  you  may  carry 
to  the  fire,  and  hold  readily 
in  your  hand,  are  the  most 
useful  after  all  " 

— JOHNSON 


STORIES   OF 
THE    SOUTH 


STORIES    FROM    SCRIBNER 

* 
STORIES   OF 

THE  SOUTH 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES    SCRIBNER'S    SONS 
1893 


Copyright,  1893,  by 
Charles  Scribncr's  Sons 


Trow  Print 


STORIES   OF  THE   SOUTH 

» 
No  HAID  PAWN 

BY  THOMAS   NELSON  PAGE 

How  THE  DERBY  WAS  WON 
BY  HARRISON  ROBERTSON 

AUNT  FOUNTAIN'S  PRISONER 
BY  JOEL  CHANDLER  HARRIS 

TlRAR   Y   SOULT 
BY   REBECCA  HARDING   DAVIS 


M5B7451 


NO  HAID   PAWN  " 

BY  THOMAS  NELSON  PAGE 


IT  was  a  ghostly  place  in  broad  day 
light,    if  the   glimmer   that    stole 
through   the  dense  forest   that  sur 
rounded   it   \yhen   the   sun   was   di 
rectly    overhead    deserved    this   delusive 
name.     At  any  other  time  it  was  —  why, 
we   were   afraid    even    to   talk    about   it ! 
and   as   to    venturing   within    its    gloomy 
borders,  it  was  currently  believed  among 
us  that  to  do  so  was  to  bring  upon  the  in 
truder  certain  death.     I  knew  every  foot  of 
ground,  wet  and  dry,  within  five  miles  of 
my  father's  house  except  this  plantation, 


STORIES    OF   THE    SOUTH 


for  I  had  hunted  by  day  and  night  every 
field,  forest,  and  marsh  within  that  radius  ; 
but  the  swamp  and  "  ma'shes  "  that  sur 
rounded  this  place  I  had  never  invaded. 
The  boldest  hunter  on  the  plantation 
would  call  off  his  dogs  and  go  home  if 
they  struck  a  trail  that  crossed  the  sobby 
boundary  line  of  "  No  Raid  Pawn." 

"Jack  'my  lanterns"  and  "evil  sper- 
its  "  only  infested  those  woods,  and  the 
earnest  advice  of  those  whom  we  children 
acknowledged  to  know  most  about  them, 
was,  "  Don't  you  never  go  nigh  dyah, 
honey  ;  hit's  de  evil-speritest  place  in  dis 
wull." 

Had  not  Big  William,  and  Cephas,  and 
Poliam  followed  their  dogs  in  there  one 
night,  and  cut  down  a  tree  in  which  they 
had  with  their  own  eyes  seen  the  coon, 
and  lo!  when  it  fell  "  de  warn  no  mo' 
coon  dyah  'n  a  dog  !  "  and  the  next  tree 
they  had  "treed  in  "  not  only  had  no  coon 
in  it,  but  when  it  was  cut  down  it  had 


1  NO    HAID    PAWN  "  13 


fallen  on  Poliam  and  broken  his  leg.  So 
the  very  woods  were  haunted.  From  this 
time  they  were  abandoned  to  the  "jack 
'my  lanterns  "  and  ghosts,  and  another 
shadow  was  added  to  "No  Haid  Pawn" 

The  place  was  as  much  cut  off  from  the 
rest  of  the  country  as  if  a  sea  had  divided 
it.  The  river  with  marshy  banks  swept 
around  it  in  a  wide  horseshoe  on  three 
sides,  and  when  the  hammocks  dammed  it 
up  it  washed  its  way  straight  across  and 
scoured  out  a  new  bed  for  itself,  com 
pletely  isolating  the  whole  plantation. 

The  owners  of  it,  if  there  were  any, 
which  was  doubtful,  were  aliens,  and  in 
my  time  it  had  not  been  occupied  for  forty 
years.  The  negroes  declared  that  it  was 
"  gi'n  up  "  to  the  "  ha'nts  an'  evil  sperits," 
and  that  no  living  being  could  live  there. 
It  had  grown  up  in  forest  and  had  wholly 
reverted  to  original  marsh.  The  road  that 
once  ran  through  the  swamp  had  long 
since  been  choked  up,  and  the  trees  were 


14  STORIES    OF    THE    SOUTH 


as  thick,  and  the  jungle  as  dense  now  in 
its  track,  as  in  the  adjacent  "  ma'sh. " 
Only  one  path  remained.  That,  it  was 
currently  believed  by  the  entire  portion  of 
the  population  who  speculated  on  the  sub 
ject,  was  kept  open  by  the  evil  spirits. 
Certain  it  was  that  no  human  foot  ever 
trod  the  narrow,  tortuous  line  that  ran 
through  the  brakes  as  deviously  as  the 
noiseless  stagnant  ditches  that  curved 
through  the  jungle,  where  the  musk-rat 
played  and  the  moccasin  slept  unmolested. 
Yet  there  it  lay,  plain  and  well-defined, 
month  after  month,  and  year  after  year,  as 
No  Haid  Pawn  itself  stood,  amid  its  sur 
rounding  swamps,  all  undisturbed  and  un 
changing. 

Even  the  runaway  slaves  who  occasion 
ally  left  their  homes  and  took  to  the 
swamps  and  woods,  impelled  by  the 
cruelty  of  their  overseers,  or  by  a  desire 
for  a  vain  counterfeit  of  freedom,  never 
tried  this  swamp,  but  preferred  to  be 


"  NO    HAID    PAWN  15 

caught  and  returned  home  to  invading  its 
awful  shades. 

We  were  brought  up  to  believe  in 
ghosts.  Our  fathers  and  mothers  laughed 
at  us,  and  endeavored  to  reason  us  out  of 
such  a  superstition — the  fathers  with  much 
of  ridicule  and  satire,  the  mothers  giving 
sweet  religious  reasons  for  their  argument 
— but  what  could  they  avail  against  the 
actual  testimony  a.nd  the  blood-curdling 
experiences  of  a  score  of  witnesses  who 
recounted  their  personal  observations 
with  a  degree  of  thrilling  realism  and  a 
vividness  that  overbore  any  arguments  our 
childish  reason  could  grasp  !  The  old 
mammies  and  uncles  who  were  our  com 
panions  and  comrades  believed  in  the  ex 
istence  of  evil  spirits  as  truly  as  in  the  ex 
istence  of  hell  or  heaven,  as  to  which  at 
that  time  no  question  had  ever  been 
raised,  so  far  as  was  known,  in  that  slum 
berous  world.  [The  Bible  was  the  stand 
ard,  and  all  disputes  were  resolved  into, 


i6 


STORIES    OF    THE   SOUTH 


an  appeal  to  that  authority  :  the  single 
question  as  to  any  point  being  simply,  "Is 
it  in  the  Bible  ?  "]  Had  not  Lazarus  and 
Mam'  Celia,  and  William,  and  Twis'-foot- 
Bob,  and  Aunt  Sukie  Brown  and  others 
seen  with  their  own  eyes  the 
evil  spirits,  again  and 
again,  in  the  bodily 
shape  of  cats,  head 
less  dogs,  white  cows, 
and  other  less  palpa 
ble  forms  !  And  was 

not  their  experience,  who  lived  in  remote 
cabins,  or  wandered  night  after  night 
through  the  loneliest  woods,  stronger  evi 
dence  than  the  cold  reasoning  of  those 
who  hardly  ever  stirred  abroad  except  in 
daylight !  It  certainly  was  more  conclu 
sive  to  us  ;  for  no  one  could  have  listened 
to  those  narrators  without  being  impressed 
with  the  fact  that  they  were  recounting 
what  they  had  actually  seen  with  their 
bodily  eyes.  The  result  of  it  all  was,  so 


1  NO   HAID   PAWN  "  17 


far  as  we  were  concerned,  the  triumph  of 
faith  over  reason,  and  the  fixed  belief  on 
our  part,  in  the  actual  visible  existence  of 
the  departed,  in  the  sinister  form  of  ap 
parition  known  as  "evil  sperits."  Every 
graveyard  was  tenanted  by  them  ;  every 
old  house,  and  every  peculiarly  desolate 
spot  was  known  to  be  their  rendezvous  ; 
but  all  spots  and  places  sank  into  insig 
nificance  compared  with  No  Haid  Pawn. 

The  very  name  was  uncanny.  Origi 
nally  it  had  designated  a  long,  stagnant 
pool  of  water  lying  in  the  centre  of  the 
tract,  which  marked  the  spot  from  which 
the  soil  had  been  dug  to  raise  the  eleva 
tion  on  which  to  set  the  house.  More 
modernly  the  place,  by  reason  of  the  fill 
ing  up  of  ditches  and  the  sinking  of  dykes, 
had  become,  again  simple  swamp  and 
jungle,  or,  to  use  the  local  expression, 
"  had  turned  to  ma'sh,"  and  the  name  ap 
plied  to  the  whole  plantation. 

The  origin  of  the  name— the  pond  had 


l8  STORIES    OF    THE    SOUTH 

no  source  ;  but  there  was  a  better  expla 
nation  than  that.  Anyhow,  the  very  name 
inspired  dread,  and  the  place  was  our  ter 
ror. 

The  house  had  been  built  many  genera 
tions  before  by  a  stranger  in  this  section, 
and  the  owners  never  made  it  their  perma 
nent  home.  Thus,  no  ties  either  of  blood 
or  friendship  were  formed  with  their  neigh 
bors,  who  were  certainly  open-hearted  and 
open-doered  enough  to  overcome  anything 
but  the  most  persistent  unneighborliness. 
Why  this  spot  was  selected  for  a  mansion 
was  always  a  mystery,  unless  it  was  that 
the  newcomer  desired  to  isolate  himself 
completely.  Instead  of  following  the  cus 
tom  of  those  who  were  native  and  to  the 
manor  born,  who  always  chose  some  emi 
nence  for  their  seats,  he  had  selected  for 
his  a  spot  in  the  middle  of  the  wide  flat 
which  lay  in  the  horseshoe  of  the  river. 
The  low  ground,  probably  owing  to  the 
abundance  of  land  in  that  country,  had 


"  NO    HMD    PAWN  "  19 

never  been  "  taken  up,"  and  up  to  the  time 
of  his  occupation  was  in  a  condition  of 
primeval  swamp.  He  had  to  begin  by 
making  an  artificial  mound  for  his  man 
sion.  Even  then,  it  was  said,  he  dug  so 
deep  that  he  laid  the  corner-stone  in  water. 
The  foundation  was  of  stone,  \vhich  was 
brought  from  a  distance.  Fabulous  stories 
were  told  of  it.  The  negroes  declared  that 
under  the  old  house  were  solid  rock  cham 
bers,  which  had  been  built  for  dungeons, 
and  had  served  for  purposes  which  were 
none  the  less  awful  because  they  were 
vague  and  indefinite.  The  huge  structure 
itself  was  of  wood,  and  was  alleged  to 
contain  many  mysterious  rooms  and  un 
derground  passages.  One  of  the  latter 
was  said  to  connect  with  the  No  Haid 
Pawn  itself,  whose  dark  waters,  according 
to  the  negroes'  traditions,  were  some  day, 
by  some  process  not  wholly  consistent 
with  the  laws  of  physics,  to  overwhelm  the 
fated  pile.  An  evil  destiny  had  seemed  to 


STORIES    OF    THE    SOUTH 


overshadow  the  place  from  the  very  begin 
ning.  One  of  the  negro  builders  had  been 
caught  and  decapitated  between  two  of  the 
immense  foundation  stones.  The  tradition 
was  handed  down  that  he  was  sacrificed  in 
some  awful  and  occult  rite  connected  with 
the  laying  of  the  corner-stone.  The  scaf 
folding  had  given  way  and  had  precipi 
tated  several  men  to  the  ground,  most  of 
whom  had  been  fatally  hurt.  This  also  was 
alleged  to  be  by  hideous  design.  Then 
the  plantation,  in  the  process  of  being  re 
claimed,  had  proved  unhealthy  beyond 
all  experience,  and  the  negroes  employed 
in  the  work  of  dyking  and  reclaiming  the 
great  swamp  had  sickened  and  died  by 
dozens.  The  extension  of  the  dangerous 
fever  to  the  adjoining  plantations  had  left 
a  reputation  for  typhus  malaria  from  which 
the  whole  section  suffered  for  a  time. 
But  this  did  not  prevent  the  colored  pop 
ulation  from  recounting  year  after  year  the 
horrors  of  the  pestilence  of  No  Haid  Pawn, 


"  NO    HMD    PAWN  " 


as  a  peculiar  visitation,  nor  from  relating 
with  blood-curdling  details  the  burial  by 
scores,  in  a  thicket  just  beside  the  pond, 
of  the  stricken  "  befo'  dee  daid,  honey, 
befo'  dee  daid!  "  The  bodies,  it  was  said, 
used  to  float  about  in  the  guts  of  the 
swamp  and  on  the  haunted  pond  ;  and  at 
night  they  might  be  seen,  if  anyone  were 
so  hardy  as  to  venture  there,  rowing  about 
in  their  coffins  as  if  they  were  boats. 

Thus  the  place  from  the  beginning  had 
an  evil  name,  and  when,  year  after  year, 
the  river  rose  and  washed  the  levees  away, 
or  the  musk-rats  burrowed  through  and  let 
the  water  in,  and  the  strange  masters 
cursed  not  only  the  elements  but  Heaven 
itself,  the  continued  mortality  of  their  ne 
groes  was  not  wholly  unexpected,  nor  un 
accounted  for  by  certain  classes  of  their 
neighbors. 

At  length  the  property  had  fallen  to  one 
more  gloomy,  more  strange,  and  more 
sinister  than  any  who  had  gone  before 


22  STORIES    OF   THE    SOUTH 

him — a  man  whose  personal  characteris 
tics  and  habits  were  unique  in  that  coun 
try.  He  was  of  gigantic  stature  and 
superhuman  strength,  and  possessed  ap 
petites  and  vices  in  proportion  to  his  size. 
He  could  fell  an  ox  with  a  blow  of  his  fist, 
or  in  a  fit  of  anger  could  tear  down  the 
branch  of  a  tree,  or  bend  a  bar  of  iron  like 
a  reed.  He,  either  from  caprice  or  igno 
rance,  spoke  only  a  patois  not  unlike  the 
Creole  French  of  the  Louisiana  parishes. 
But  he  was  a  West  Indian.  His  brutal 
temper  and  habits  cut  him  off  from  even 
the  small  measure  of  intercourse  which 
had  existed  between  his  predecessors  and 
their  neighbors,  and  he  lived  at  No  Haid 
Pawn  completely  isolated.  All  the  stories 
and  traditions  of  the  place  at  once  centred 
on  him,  and  fabulous  tales  were  told  of 
his  prowess  and  of  his  life.  It  was  said, 
among  other  things,  that  he  preserved  his 
wonderful  strength  by  drinking  human 
blood,  a  tale  which  in  a  certain  sense  I 


'  NO    HMD    PAWN 


have  never  seen  reason  to  question.  Mak 
ing  all  allowances,  his  life  was  a  blot  upon 
civilization.  At  length  it  culminated.  A 


brutal  temper,  inflamed  by  unbridled  pas 
sions,  after  a  long  period  of  license  and 
debauchery,  came  to  a  climax  in  a  final 
orgy  of  ferocity  and  fury,  in  which  he  was 


24  STORIES    OF   THE    SOUTH 

guilty  of  an  act  whose  fiendishness  sur 
passed  belief,  and  he  was  brought  to 
judgment. 

In  modern  times  the  very  inhumanity  of 
the  crime  would  probably  have  proved 
his  security,  and  as  he  had  destroyed  his 
own  property  while  he  was  perpetrating  a 
crime  of  appalling  and  unparalleled  hor 
ror,  he  might  have  found  a  defence  in  that 
standing  refuge  of  extraordinary  scoun- 
drelism— insanity.  This  defence,  indeed, 
was  put  in,  and  was  pressed  with  much 
ability  by  his  counsel,  one  of  whom  was 
my  father,  who  had  just  then  been  ad 
mitted  to  the  bar  ;  but  fortunately  for  the 
cause  of  justice,  neither  courts  nor  juries 
were  then  so  sentimental  as  they  have  be 
come  of  late  years,  and  the  last  occupant 
of  No  Haid  Pawn  paid  under  the  law  the 
full  penalty  of  his  hideous  crime.  It  was 
one  of  the  curious  incidents  of  the  trial 
that  his  negroes  all  lamented  his  death 
and  declared  that  he  was  a  good  master 


"  NO   HMD    PAWN  ' 


when  he  was  not  drunk.  He  was  hanged 
just  at  the  rear  of  his  own  house,  within 
sight  of  the  spot  where  his  awful  crime 
was  committed. 

At  his  execution,  which  according  to  the 
custom  of  the  country  was  public,  a  hor 
rible  coincidence  occurred  which  furnished 
the  text  of  many  a  sermon  on  retributive 
justice  among  the  negroes. 

The  body  was  interred  near  the  pond 
close  by  the  thicket  where  the  negroes 
were  buried  ;  but  the  negroes  declared 
that  it  preferred  one  of  the  stone  cham 
bers  under  the  mansion,  where  it  made  its 
home,  and  that  it  might  be  seen  at  any 
time  of  the  day  or  night  stalking  headless 
about  the  place.  They  used  to  dwell  with 
peculiar  zest  on  the  most  agonizing  de 
tails  of  this  wretch's  dreadful  crime,  the 
whole  culminating  in  the  final  act  of 
maniacal  fury  when  the  gigantic  monster 
dragged  the  hacked  and  headless  corpse 
of  his  victim  up  the  staircase  and  stood  it 


26  STORIES    OF    THE    SOUTH 

up  before  the  open  window  in  his  hall,  in 
full  view  of  the  terrified  slaves.  After 
these  narrations,  the  continued  reappear 
ance  of  the  murderer  and  his  headless 
victim  was  as  natural  to  usns  it  was  tothe 
negroes  themselves  ;  and,  as  night  after 
night  we  would  hurry  up  to  the  great 
house  through  the  darkness,  we  were  ever 
on  (he  watch  lest  he  should  appear  to  our 
frightened  vision  from  the  shades  of  the 
shrubbery-filled  yard. 

Thus  it  was  that  of  all  ghostly  places 
No  Haid  Pawn  had  the  distinction  of  be 
ing  invested,  to  us,  with  unparalleled  hor 
ror,  and  thus  to  us,  no  less  than  because 
the  dykes  hnd  given  way  and  the  over 
flowed  flats  had  turned  again  to  swamp 
and  jungle,  it  was  explicable  that  No  Haid 
Pawn  was  abandoned,  and  was  now  un 
trodden  by  any  foot  but  that  of  its  ghostly 
tenants. 

The  time  of  my  story  was  185-  The 
spring  previous  continuous  rains  had  kept 


1  NO    HMD    PAWN  27 


the  river  full,  and  had  flooded  the  low- 
grounds,  and  this  had  been  followed  by 
an  exceptionally  dense  growth  in  the  sum 
mer.  Then,  public  feeling  was  greatly 
excited  at  the  time  of  which  I  write,  over 
the  discovery  in  the  neighborhood  of  sev 
eral  emissaries  of  the  underground  rail 
way,  or— as  they  were  universally  con 
sidered  in  that  country— of  the  devil. 
They  had  been  run  off  or  had  disappeared 
suddenly,  but  had  left  behind  them  some 
little  excitement  on  the  part  of  the  slaves, 
and  a  great  deal  on  the  part  of  their 
masters,  nnd  more  than  the  usual  number 
of  negroes  had  run  away.  All,  however, 
had  been  caught,  or  had  returned  home 
after  a  sufficient  interval  of  freedom,  ex 
cept  one  who  had  escaped  permanently, 
and  who  was  supposed  to  have  accompa 
nied  his  instigators  on  their  flight. 

This  man  was  a  well-known  character. 
He  belonged  to  one  of  our  neighbors,  and 
had  been  bought  and  brought  there  from 


28  STORIES    OF    THE   SOUTH 


an  estate  on  the  Lower  Mississippi.     He 
was  the  most  brutal  negro  I  ever  knew. 
.  He  was  of  a  type  rarely  found  among  our 
negroes,  who,  judging  from  their  physiog 
nomy  and   general  characteristics,  came 
principally   from    the    coast 
of  Africa.      They    are   of 
moderate   stature,   with 
dull  but  amiable  faces. 
This  man,  however, 
Ji     was  of  immense  size, 
and  he  possessed  the 
features  and  expres 
sion  of  a  Congo  desperado.     In  charac 
ter   also  he   differed   essentially  from  all 
the  other  slaves  in  our  country.      He  was 
alike  without   their  amiability  and    their 
docility,   and  was  as  fearless  as  he  was 
brutal.     He  was   the  only  negro   I    ever 
knew  who    was    without   either   supersti 
tion   or   reverence.     Indeed,    he    differed 
so    widely   from    the    rest    of    the    slaves 
in  that  section  that   there   existed   some 


1  NO    HAID    PAWN  "  29 


feeling  against  him  almost  akin  to  a 
race  feeling.  At  the  same  time  that  he 
exercised  considerable  influence  over 
them  they  were  dreadfully  afraid  of  him, 
and  were  always  in  terror  that  he  would 
trick  them,  to  which  awful  power  he  laid 
well-known  claim.  His  curses  in  his 
strange  dialect  used  to  terrify  them  be 
yond  measure,  and  they  would  do  any 
thing  to  conciliate  him.  He  had  been  a 
continual  source  of  trouble,  and  an  object 
of  suspicion  in  the  neighborhood  from  the 
time  of  his  first  appearance;  and  more 
than  one  hog  that  the  negroes  declared 
had  wandered  into  the  marshes  of  No 
Haid  Pawn,  and  had  "cut  his  thote  jes' 
swinin'  aroun'  an'  aroun'  in  de  ina'sh," 
had  been  suspected  of  finding  its  wray  to 
this  man's  cabin.  His  master  had  often 
been  urged  to  get  rid  of  him,  but  he  was 
kept,  I  think,  probably  because  he  was 
valuable  on  the  plantation.  He  was  a  fine 
butcher,  a  good  work-hand,  and  a  first- 


30  STORIES    OF    THE    SOUTH 

class  boatman.  Moreover,  ours  was  a 
conservative  population,  in  which  every 
man  minded  his  own  business  and  let  his 
neighbor's  alone. 

At  the  time  of  the  visits  of  those  secret 
agents  to  which  I  have  referred,  this  negro 
was  discovered  to  be  the  leader  in  the 
secret  meetings  held  under  their  auspices, 
and  he  would  doubtless  have  been  taken 
up  and  shipped  off  at  once  ;  but  when  the 
intruders  fled,  as  I  have  related,  their 
convert  disappeared  also.  It  was  a  sub 
ject  of  general  felicitation  in  the  neighbor 
hood  that  he  was  gotten  rid  of,  and  his 
master,  instead  of  being  commiserated  on 
the  loss  of  his  slave,  was  congratulated 
that  he  had  not  cut  his  throat. 

No  idea  can  be  given  at  this  date  of  the 
excitement  occasioned  in  a  quiet  neigh 
borhood  in  old  times  by  the  discovery  of 
the  mere  presence  of  such  characters  as 
Abolitionists'.  It  was  as  if  the  foundations 
of  the  whole  social  fabric  were  under- 


"  NO    HMD    PAWN  3! 

mined.  It  was  the  sudden  darkening  of  a 
shadow  that  always  hung  in  the  horizon. 
The  slaves  were  in  a  large  majority,  and 
had  they  risen,  though  the  final  issue 
could  not  be  doubted,  the  lives  of  every 
white  on  the  plantations  must  have  paid 
the  forfeit.  Whatever  the  right  and 
wrong  of  slavery  might  have  been,  its 
existence  demanded  that  no  outside  inter 
ference  with  it  should  be  tolerated.  So 
much  was  certain  ;  self-preservation  re 
quired  this. 

I  was,  at  the  time  of  which  I  speak,  a 
well-grown  lad,  and  had  been  for  two  ses 
sions  to  a  boarding-school,  where  I  had 
gotten  rid  of  some  portion — I  will  not  say 
of  all — of  the  superstition  of  my  boyhood. 
The  spirit  of  adventure  was  beginning  to 
exert  itself  in  me,  and  I  had  begun  to  feel 
a  sense  of  enjoyment  in  overcoming  the 
fears  which  once  mastered  me,  though,  I 
must  confess,  I  had  not  entirely  shaken 
off  my  belief  in  the  existence  of  ghosts — 


32  STORIES    OF    THE    SOUTH 

that  is,  I  did  not  believe  in  them  at  all  in 
the  daytime,  but  when  night  came  I  was 
not  so  certain  about  it. 

Duck-hunting  was  my  favorite  sport, 
and  the  marshes  on  the  river  were  fine 
ground  for  them  usually,  but  this  season 
the  weather  had  been  so  singularly  warm 
that  the  sport  had  been  poor,  and  though 
I  had  scoured  every  canal  in  the  marsh, 
and  every  bend  in  the  river  as  far  as  No 
Haid  Pawn  Hammock,  as  the  stretch  of 
drifted  timber  and  treacherous  marsh  was 
called  that  marked  the  boundary-line  of 
that  plantation,  I  had  had  bad  luck.  Be 
yond  that  point  I  had  never  penetrated, 
partly,  no  doubt,  because  of  the  training 
of  my  earlier  years,  and  partly  because 
the  marsh  on  either  side  of  the  hammock 
would  have  mired  a  cat.  Often,,,  as  I 
watched  with  envious  eyes  the  wild  duck 
rise  up  over  the  dense  trees  that  sur 
rounded  the  place  and  cut  straight  for  the 
deserted  marshes  in  the  horseshoe,  I  had 


"  NO   HAID   PAWN  "  33 

had  a  longing  to  invade  the  mysterious 
domain,  and  crawl  to  the  edge  of  No 
Raid  Pawn  and  get  a  shot  at  the  fowl  that 
floated  on  its  black  surface  ;  but  some 
thing  had  always  deterred  me,  and  the 
long  reaches  of  No  Haid  Pawn  were  left 
to  the  wild-fowl  and  the  ghostly  rowers. 
Finally,  however,  after  a  spell  whose  high 
temperature  was  rather  suited  to  August 
than  April,  in  desperation  at  my  ill-luck  I 
determined  to  gratify  my  curiosity  and  try 
No  Haid  Pawn.  So  one  afternoon,  with 
out  telling  anyone  of  my  intention,  I 
crossed  the  mysterious  boundary  and 
struck  through  the  swamp  for  the  un 
known  land. 

The  marsh  was  far  worse  than  I  had 
anticipated,  and  no  one  but  a  duck-hunter 
as  experienced  and  zealous  as  myself, 
and  as  indifferent  to  ditches,  briers,  mire, 
and  all  that  make  a  swamp,  could  have 
penetrated  it  at  all.  Even  I  could  never 
have  gotten  on  if  I  had*  not  followed  the 


34  STORIES    OF    THE    SOUTH 

one  path  that  led  into  the  marsh,  the  re 
puted  "  parf  "  of  the  evil  spirits,  and  as 
it  was,  my  progress  was  both  tedious  and 
dangerous. 

The  track  was  a  mysterious  one,  for 
though  I  knew  it  had  not  been  trodden  by 
a  human  foot  in  many  years,  yet  there  a 
veritable  "  parf "  it  lay.  In  some  places 
it  was  almost  completely  lost,  and  I  would 
fear  I  should  have  to  turn  back,  but  an 
overhanging  branch  or  a  vine  swinging 
from  one  tree  to  another  would  furnish  a 
way  to  some  spot  where  the  -  narrow  trail 
began  again.  In  other  spots  old  logs 
thrown  across  the  miry  canals  gave  me  an 
uncomfortable  feeling  as  I  reflected  what 
feet  had  last  crossed  on  them.  On  both 
sides  of  this  trail  the  marsh  was  either  an 
impenetrable  jungle  or  a  mire  apparently 
bottomless. 

I  shall  never  forget  my  sensations  as  I 
finally  emerged  from  the  woods  into  the 
clearing,  if  that  desolate  waste  of  willows, 


"  NO    HAID    PAWN  "  35 

cane,  and  swamp  growth  could  be  so 
termed.  About  me  stretched  the  jungle, 
over  which  a  greenish  lurid  atmosphere 
brooded,  and  straight  ahead  towered  the 
gaunt  mansion,  a  rambling  pile  of  sombre 
white,  with  numberless  vacant  windows 
staring  at  me  from  the  leafless  trees  about 
it.  Only  one  other  clump  of  trees  ap 
peared  above  the  canes  and  brush,  and 
that  I  knew  by  intuition  was  the  grave 
yard. 

I  think  I  should  have  turned  back  had 
not  shame  impelled  me  forward. 

My  progress  from  this  point  was  even 
more  difficult  than  it  had  been  hitherto, 
for  the  trail  at  the  end  of  the  wood  termi 
nated  abruptly  in  a  gut  of  the  swamp  ; 
however,  I  managed  to  keep  on  by  walk 
ing  on  hammocks,  pushing  through 
clumps  of  bushes,  and  wading  as  best  I 
could.  It  was  slow  and  hot  work,  though. 

It  never  once  struck  me  that  it  must  be 
getting  late.  I  had  become  so  accustomed 


36  STORIES   OF   THE   SOUTH 

to  the  gloom  of  the  woods  that  the  more 
open  ground  appeared  quite  light  to  me, 
and  I  had  not  paid  any  attention  to  the 
black  cloud  that  had  been  for  some  time 
gathering  overhead,  or  to  the  darkening 
atmosphere. 

I  suddenly  became  sensible  that  it  was 
going  to  rain.  However,  I  was  so  much 
engrossed  in  the  endeavor  to  get  on  that 
even  then  I  took  little  note  of  it.  The 
nearer  I  came  to  the  house  the  more  it 
arrested  my  attention,  and  the  more  weird 
and  uncanny  it  looked.  Canes  and  bushes 
grew  up  to  the  very  door ;  the  window- 
shutters  hung  from  the  hinges  ;  the  bro 
ken  windows  glared  like  eyeless  sockets  ; 
the  portico  had  fallen  away  from  the  wall, 
while  the  wide  door  stood  slightly  ajar, 
giving  to  the  place  a  singularly  ghastly 
appearance  somewhat  akin  to  the  color 
which  sometimes  lingers  on  the  face  of  a 
corpse.  In  my  progress  wading  through 
the  swamp  I  had  gone  around  rather  to 


"  NO   HAID    PAWN  "  37 

the  side  of  the  house  toward  where  I  sup 
posed  the  "  pawn  "  itself  to  lie. 

I  was  now  quite  near  to  it,  and  striking 
a  little  less  miry  ground,  as  I  pushed  my 
way  through  the  bushes  and  canes  which 
were  higher  than  my  head,  I  became 
aware  that  I  was  very  near  the  thicket  that 
marked  the  graveyard,  just  beyond  which  I 
knew  the  pond  itself  lay.  I  was  somewhat 
startled,  for  the  cloud  made  it  quite  dusky, 
and  stepping  on  a  long  piece  of  rotten 
timber  lying  on  the  ground,  I  parted  the 
bushes  to  look  down  the  pond.  As  I  did 
so  the  rattle  of  a  chain  grated  on  me,  and 
glancing  up  through  the  cane  before  me 
appeared  a  heavy  upright  timber  with  an 
arm  or  cross-beam  stretching  from  it,  from 
which  dangled  a  long  chain  almost  rusted 
away.  I  knew  by  instinct  that  I  stood 
under  the  gallows  where  the  murderer  of 
No  Haid  Pawn  had  expiated  his  dreadful 
crime.  His  corpse  must  have  fallen  just 
where  I  stood.  I  started  back  appalled. 


38  STORIES    OF    THE    SOUTH 

Just  then  the  black  cloud  above  me  was 
parted  by  a  vivid  flame  and  a  peal  of 
thunder  seemed  to  rive  the  earth. 

I  turned  in  terror,  but  before  I  had 
gone  fifty  yards  the  storm  was  upon  me, 
and  instinctively  I  made  for  the  only  ref 
uge  that  was  at  hand.  It  was  a  dreadful 
alternative,  but  I  did  not  hesitate.  Out 
side  I  was  not  even  sure  that  my  life  was 
safe.  And  with  extraordinary  swiftness  I 
had  made  my  way  through  the  broken 
iron  fence  that  lay  rusting  in  the  swamp, 
had  traversed  the  yard,  all  grown  up  as  it 
was  to  the  very  threshold,  had  ascended 
the  sunken  steps,  crossed  the  rotted  por 
tico,  and  entered  the  open  door. 

A  long  dark  hall  stretched  before  me, 
extending,  as  well  as  I  could  judge  in  the 
gloom,  entirely  across  the  house.  A  num 
ber  of  doors,  some  shut,  some  ajar,  open 
ed  on  the  hall  on  one  side ;  and  a  broad 
dark  stairway  ascended  on  the  other  to 
the  upper  story.  The  walls  were  black 


"  NO    HAID    PAWN  "  39 

with  mould.  At  the  far  end  a  large  bow- 
window,  with  all  the  glass  gone,  looked 
out  on  the  waste  of  swamp,  unbroken  save 
by  the  clump  of  trees  in  the  graveyard, 
and  just  beside  this  window  was  a  break 
where  the  dark  staircase  descended  to  the 
apartments  below.  The  whole  place  was 
in  a  state  of  advanced  decay  ;  almost  the 
entire  plastering  had  fallen  with  the  damp, 
and  the  hall  presented  a  scene  of  desola 
tion  that  beggars  description. 

I  was  at  last  in  the  haunted  house  ! 

The  rain,  driven  by  the  wind,  poured  in 
at  the  broken  windows,  in  such  a  deluge 
that  I  was  forced  in  self-defence  to  seek 
shelter  in  one  of  the  rooms.  I  tried  sev 
eral,  but  the  doors  were  swollen  or  fast 
ened  ;  I  found  one,  however,  on  the  lee 
ward  side  of  the  house,  and  pushing  the 
door,  which  opened  easily,  I  entered. 
Inside  I  found  something  like  an  old  bed; 
and  the  great  open  fireplace  had  evi 
dently  been  used  at  some  earlier  time,  for 


40  STORIES    OF    THE    SOUTH 

the  ashes  were  still  banked  up  in  the  cav 
ernous  hearth,  and  the  charred  ends  of 
the  logs  of  wood  were  lying  in  the  chim 
ney  corners.  To  see,  still  as  fresh  and 
natural  as  though  the  fire  had  but  just 
died  out,  these  remnants  of  domestic  life 
that  had  survived  all  else  of  a  similar  pe 
riod  struck  me  as  unspeakably  ghastly. 
The  bedstead,  however,  though  rude  was 
convenient  as  a  seat,  and  I  utilized  it  ac 
cordingly,  propping  myself  up  against 
one  of  the  rough  posts.  From  my  posi 
tion  I  commanded  through  the  open  door 
the  entire  length  of  the  vacant  hall,  and 
could  look  straight  out  of  the  great  bow- 
window  at  the  head  of  the  stairs,  through 
which  appeared  against  the  dull  sky  the 
black  mass  of  the  graveyard  trees,  and  a 
stretch  of  one  of  the  canals  or  guts  of  the 
swamp  curving  around  it,  which  gleamed 
white  in  the  glare  of  the  lightning. 

I  had  expected  that  the  storm  would, 
like  most  thunder-storms  in  the  latitude, 


"  NO   HAID    PAWN  41 

shortly  exhaust  itself,  or,  as  we  say,  "blow 
over;"  but  I  was  mistaken,  and  as  the 
time  passed,  its  violence,  instead  of  di 
minishing,  increased.  It  grew  darker  and 
darker,  and  presently  the  startling  truth 
dawned  on  me  that  the  gloom  which  I  had 
supposed  simply  the  effect  of  the  over 
shadowing  cloud  had  been  really  nightfall. 
I  was  shut  up  alone  in  No  Raid  Pawn  for 
the  night ! 

I  hastened  to  the  door  with  the  inten 
tion  of  braving  the  storm  and  getting 
away ;  but  I  was  almost  blown  off  my  feet. 
A  glance  without  showed  me  that  the  guts 
with  which  the  swamp  was  traversed  in 
every  direction  were  now  full  to  the  brim, 
and  to  attempt  to  find  my  way  home  in 
the  darkness  would  be  sheer  madness  ; 
so,  after  a  wistful  survey,  I  returned  to  my 
wretched  perch.  I  thought  I  would  try 
and  light  a  fire,  but  to  my  consternation  I 
had  not  a  match,  and  I  finally  abandoned 
myself  to  my  fate.  It  was  a  desolate,  if 


42  STORIES    OF    THE    SOUTH 


not  despairing,  feeling  that  I  experienced. 
My  mind  was  filled,  not  only  with  my  own 
unhappiness,  but  with  the  thought  of  the 
distress  my  absence  would  occasion  them 
at  home  ;  and  for  a  little  while  I  had  a 
fleeting  hope  that  a  party  would  be  sent 
out  to  search  for  me.  This,  however, 
was  untenable,  for  they  would  not  know 
where  I  was.  The  last  place  in  which 
they  would  ever  think  of  looking  for  me 
was  No  Haid  Pawn,  and  even  if  they 
knew  I  was  there  they  could  no  more  get 
to  me  in  the  darkness  and  storm  than  I 
could  escape  from  it. 

I  accordingly  propped  myself  up  on  my 
bed  and  gave  myself  up  to  my  reflections. 
I  said  my  prayers  very  fervently.  I 
thought  I  would  try  and  get  to  sleep,  but 
sleep  was  far  from  my  eyes. 

My  surroundings  were  too  vivid  to  my 
apprehension.  The  awful  traditions  of 
the  place,  do  what  I  might  to  banish  them, 
would  come  to  mind.  The  original  build- 


'  NO   HMD    PAWN  43 


ing  of  the  house,  and  its  blood-stained 
foundation  stones  ;  the  dead  who  had  died 
of  the  pestilence  that  had  raged  afterward  ; 
the  bodies  carted  by  scores  and  buried  in 
the  sobby  earth  of  the  graveyard,  whose 
trees  loomed  up  through  the  broken  win 
dow  ;  the  dreadful  story  of  the  dead  pad 
dling  about  the  swamp  in  their  coffins  ; 
and,  above  all,  the  gigantic  maniac  whose 
ferocity  even  murder  could  not  satiate, 
and  who  had  added  to  murder  awful  muti 
lation  ;  he  had  dragged  the  mangled 
corpse  of  his  victim  up  those  very  steps 
and  flung  it  out  of  the  very  window  which 
gaped  just  beyond  me  in  the  glare  of  the 
lightning.  It  all  passed  through  my  mind 
as  I  sat  there  in  the  darkness,  and  no 
effort  of  my  will  could  keep  my  thoughts 
from  dwelling  on  it.  The  terrific  thunder, 
outcrashing  a  thousand  batteries,  at  times 
engrossed  my  attention  ;  but  it  always 
reverted  to  that  scene  of  horror ;  and  if  I 
dozed,  the  slamming  of  the  loose  blinds, 


44  STORIES    OF    THE   SOUTH 

or  the  terrific  fury  of  the  storm  would  sud 
denly  startle  me.  Once,  as  the  sounds 
subsided  for  a  moment,  or  else  I  having 
become  familiar  with  them,  as  I  was  sink 
ing  into  a  sleepy  state,  a  door  at  the  other 
end  of  the  hall  creaked  and  then  slammed 
with  violence,  bringing  me  bolt  upright 
on  the  bed,  clutching  my  gun.  I  could 
have  sworn  that  I  heard  footsteps ;  but 
the  wind  was  blowing  a  hurricane,  and 
after  another  period  of  wakefulness  and 
dreadful  recollection,  nature  succumbed, 
and  I  fell  asleep. 

I  do  not  know  that  I  can  be  said  to  have 
lost  consciousness  even  then,  for  my  mind 
was  still  enchained  by  the  horrors  of  my 
situation,  and  went  on  clinging  to  them 
and  dwelling  upon  them  even  in  my 
slumber. 

I  was,  however,  certainly  asleep  ;  for  the 
storm  must  have  died  temporarily  away 
about  this  hour  without  my  knowing  it, 
and  I  subsequently  heard  that  it  did. 


"  NO   HAID   PAWN  "  45 

I  must  have  slept  several  hours,  for  I 
was  quite  stiff  from  my  constrained  post 
ure  when  I  became  fully  aroused. 

I  was  awakened  by  a  very  peculiar 
sound ;  it  was  like  a  distant  call  or  halloo. 
Although  I  had  been  fast  asleep  a  mo 
ment  before,  it  startled  me  into  a  state  of 
the  highest  attention.  In  a  second  I  was 
wide  awake.  There  was  not  a  sound  ex 
cept  the  rumble  and  roll  of  the  thunder  as 
the  storm  once  more  began  to  renew  itself, 
and  in  the  segment  of  the  circle  that  I 
could  see  along  the  hall  through  my  door, 
and  indeed  out  through  the  yawning  win 
dow  at  the  end,  as  far  as  the  black  clump 
of  trees  in  the  graveyard  just  at  the  bend 
of  the  canal,  which  I  commanded  from  my 
seat  whenever  there  was  a  flash  of  light 
ning,  there  was  only  the  swaying  of  the 
bushes  in  the  swamp  and  of  the  trees  in 
the  graveyard.  Yet  there  I  sat  bolt  up 
right  on  my  bed,  in  the  darkness,  with 
every  nerve  strained  to  its  utmost  tension, 


46  STORIES    OF   THE   SOUTH 


and  that  unearthly  cry  still  sounding  in 
my  ears.  I  was  endeavoring  to  reason 
myself  into  the  belief  that  I  had  dreamed 
it,  when  a  flash  of  lightning  lit  up  the 
whole  field  of  my  vision  as  if  it  had  been 
in  the  focus  of  a  sun-glass,  and  out  on  the 
canal  where  it  curved  around  the  grave 
yard  was  a  boat  —  a  something  —  small, 
black,  with  square  ends,  and  with  a  man 
in  it,  standing  upright,  and  something 
lying  in  a  lump  or  mass  at  the  bow. 

I  knew  I  could  not  be  mistaken,  for  the 
lightning  by  a  process  of  its  own  photo 
graphs  everything  on  the  retina  in  minut 
est  detail,  and  I  had  a  vivid  impression 
of  everything  from  the  foot  of  the  bed  on 
which  I  crouched  to  the  gaunt  arms  of  those 
black  trees  in  the  graveyard  just  over  that 
ghostly  boatman  and  his  dreadful  freight. 
I  was  wide  awake.  The  story  of  the  dead 
rowing  in  their  coffins  was  verified  ! 

I  am  unable  to  state  what  passed  in  the 
next  few  minutes. 


'  NO    HAID    PAWN  47 


The  storm  had  burst  again  with  renewed 
violence  and  was  once  more  expending 
itself  on  the  house ;  the  thunder  was  again 
rolling  overhead  ;  the  broken  blinds  were 
swinging  and  slamming  madly  ;  and  the 
dreadful  memories  of  the  place  were  once 
more  besetting  me. 

I  shifted  my  position  to  relieve  the 
cramp  it  had  occasioned,  still  keeping  my 
face  toward  that  fatal  window.  As  I  did 
so  I  heard  above,  or  perhaps  I  should  say 
under,  the  storm  a  sound  more  terrible  to 
me — the  repetition  of  that  weird  halloo, 
this  time  almost  under  the  great  window. 
Immediately  succeeding  this  was  the 
sound  of  something  scraping  under  the 
wall,  and  I  was  sensible  when  a  door  on 
the  ground-floor  was  struck  with  a  heavy 
thud.  It  was  pitch-dark,  but  I  heard  the 
door  pushed  wide  open,  and  as  a  string  of 
fierce  oaths,  part  English  and  part  Creole- 
French,  floated  up  the  dark  stairway, 
muffled  as  if  sworn  through  clinched  teeth, 


48  STORIES   OF   THE   SOUTH 

I  held  my  breath.  I  recalled  the  unknown 
tongue  the  ghostly  murderer  employed  ; 
and  I  knew  that  the  murderer  of  No  Raid 
Pawn  had  left  his  grave,  and  that  his 
ghost  was  coming  up  that  stair.  I  heard 
his  step  as  it  fell  on  the  first  stair  heavily 
yet  almost  noiselessly.  It  was  an  un 
earthly  sound— dull,  like  the  tread  of  a 
bared  foot,  accompanied  by  the  scraping 
sound  of  a  body  dragging.  Step  by  step 
he  came  up  the  black  stairway  in  the 
pitch-darkness  as  steadily  as  if  it  were 
daytime — and  he  knew  every  step — ac 
companied  by  that  sickening  sound  of 
dragging.  There  was  a  final  pull  up  the 
last  step,  and  a  dull,  heavy  thud,  as  with 
a  strange,  wild  laugh  he  flung  his  burden 
on  the  floor. 

For  a  moment  there  was  not  a  sound, 
and  then  the  awful  silence  and  blackness 
were  broken  by  a  crash  of  thunder  that 
seemed  to  tear  the  foundations  asunder 
like  a  mighty  earthquake,  and  the  whole 


50  STORIES    OF    THE   SOUTH 

house,  and  the  great  swamp  outside,  were 
filled  with  a  glare  of  vivid  blinding  light. 
Directly  in  front  of  me,  clutching  in  his 
upraised  hand  a  long,  keen,  glittering 
knife,  on  whose  blade  a  ball  of  fire  seemed 
to  play,  stood  a  gigantic  figure  in  the  very 
flame  of  the  lightning,  and  stretched  at 
his  feet  lay,  ghastly  and  bloody,  a  black 
and  headless  trunk. 

I  staggered  to  the  door  and,  tripping, 
fell  prostrate  over  the  sill. 

When  we  could  get  there  nothing  was 
left  but  the  foundation.  The  haunted 
house  when  struck  had  literally  burned  to 
the  water's  edge.  The  changed  current 
had  washed  its  way  close  to  the  place, 
and  in  strange  verification  of  the  negroes' 
tradition,  No  Raid  Pawn  had  reclaimed 
its  own,  and  the  spot  with  all  its  secrets 
lay  buried  under  its  dark  waters. 


HOW    THE    DERBY    WAS 
WON 

BY  HARRISON  ROBERTSON 


IT  was  natural  that  when 
Gid  Bronxon  realized  he 
had  his  way  to  make  in 
the  world,  and  determined  to 
set  about  making  it,  he  should 
turn  to  horses,  even  though  he 
was  well  aware  that  horses  had 
been   the  ruin  of  his  father. 
Indeed,  he  asked  himself,  what 
else    could  he  turn  to  but 
horses  ?    He  had  a  fair  educa- 
l\  tion,  it  is  true,  but  it  was  a  su 

perficial  and  general  one,  and 
when  the  time  came  for  him  to 
apply   his   knowledge   to   the 
practical  purpose  of  earning  a 
living  none  of  it  seemed  available  except 
his  knowledge  of  horses.     None  of  it  was 


54  STORIES    OF    THE    SOUTH 


at  all  thorough  except  that.  He  had  been 
an  excellent  first-baseman  at  "  college," 
as  the  small,  struggling  school  which  he 
had  attended  called  itself;  but  beyond 
this  his  collegiate  achievements  had  not 
been  noteworthy,  and  he  had  never  been 
able  to  quite  understand  how  he  had  suc 
ceeded  in  taking  his  "degree" — a  mys 
tery  which  was  better  understood,  per 
haps,  by  his  "Faculty,"  as  his  "Alma 
Mater  "  was  one  of  those  institutions  which 
are  not  very  exacting  in  their  require 
ments  for  graduation,  the  most  rigid  of 
them  being  that  the  student  shall  get  over 
in  some  fashion  a  four  years'  course,  and 
shall  not  be  remiss  in  paying  his  tuition 
bills. 

But  he  knew  horses  better  than  he  knew 
baseball,  and  he  liked  them  better  than 
anything  else  in  the  world,  except  Jean 
Heath.  He  was  born  among  them  ;  he 
grew  up  among  them  ;  and  that  they 
would  eventually  be  the  death  of  him,  old 


HOW   THE    DERBY    WAS    WON  55 

Aunt  Polly  Heath  (though  herself  the  wife 
of  that  veteran  horseman  Uncle  Lije 
Heath)  had  time  and  again  predicted. 
Gid  was  a  true  son  of  the  "  Kentucky 
Bluegrass  region,"  famed,  wherever  the 
horse  is  prized,  for  the  speed,  endurance, 
and  beauty  of  its  thoroughbreds  ;  and  he 
was  as  logically  a  product  of  his  environ 
ments  as  the  superiority  of  the  thorough 
breds  themselves. 

He  may  have  inherited  his  fondness  for 
horses  from  his  father,  but  he  had  acquired 
his  information  concerning  them  from 
other  sources  ;  for  he  had  been  quick  to 
see  that  his  father  was  one  of  those  men, 
by  no  means  rare  in  Kentucky,  whose  in 
terest  in  the  race-horse  is  far  in  excess  of 
their  ability  to  form  an  intelligent  opinion 
as  to  his  qualities,  and  who  are  almost  in 
variably  greater  losers  in  purse  than  they 
are  gainers  by  experience. 

Such,  at  least,  had  been  the  case  with 
the  elder  Bronxon.  His  farm,  once  a  val- 


56  STORIES    OF    THE    SOUTH 


uable  one,  had  diminished  as  his  tendency 
to  "  back  his  opinion  "  increased,  until,  at 
the  time  of  his  death,  a  few  weeks  after 
his  son's  return  from  school,  all  that  was 
left  was  the  house,  then  decidedly  ram 
shackle,  and  about  forty  acres  of  land  ; 
which  would  also  have  probably  slipped 
out  of  his  hands  if  he  had  lived  to  make 
one  or  two  more  trips  to  the  annual  spring 
and  fall  "meetings"  at  Louisville  and 
Lexington. 

The  Bronxon  place  adjoined  the  Heath 
place,  which  was  a  stock  farm,  though  not 
as  large  nor  as  widely  known  as  many 
similar  farms  in  Kentucky.  It  belonged 
to  "  Major"  Heath,  who  had  acquired  his 
title  by  common  consent  of  his  neighbors, 
and  who  devoted  a  deal  more  care  to  his 
horses  than  he  did  to  his  children,  whom 
he  allowed  to  grow  up  and  "  run  wild  " 
pretty  much  as  they  chose.  It  was  prob 
ably  due  to  this  proximity  to  the  Major's 
that  Gid's  father  became  so  much  inter- 


HOW   THE   DERBY  WAS   WON  57 

ested  in  the  thoroughbred  ;  and  without 
doubt  this  circumstance  of  his  residence 
was  largely  responsible  for  the  early  bent 
of  Gid's  own  youthful  tastes,  for  he  and 
Tom  Heath  were  inseparable  playfellows 
as  boys,  and  while  Tom  lived  there  was 
never  a  colt  on  his  father's  farm  which  did 
not  know  the  twain,  and  which  was  not 
better  known  by  them. 

After  Tom's  death,  however,  Gid  was 
very  rarely  at  the  Heaths'.  He  went  off 
to  school  about  that  time,  and  during  his 
vacations  at  home  he  seldom  saw  the 
Major  or  the  Major's  daughter,  except  at 
some  chance  meeting  on  the  public  roads, 
or  on  Sundays  at  the  little  neighborhood 
church,  which  Gid  attended  regularly  all 
through  those  vacations.  He  sat  out  the 
long  sermons  with  a  patience  that  elevated 
him  perceptibly  in  the  good  graces  of  the 
minister,  and  gazed  at  the  back  of  Jean 
Heath's  bonnie  head  with  a  furtive  assi 
duity  which  could  not  have  been  more  en- 


58  STORIES    OF    THE    SOUTH 


grossing  and  reverential  if,  bearing  in 
mind  a  certain  illuminated  text  on  the 
wall,  he  were  trying  to  number  and  invoke 
a  blessing  upon  each  separate  strand  that 
coiled  beneath  the  little  bonnet  in  Major 
Heath's  pew.  For  Jean  Heath  was  no 
longer  in  his  eyes  merely  Tom's  little  hoi- 
den  sister.  She  had  budded  into  a  young 
womanhood  which  awed  while  it  charmed 
him,  and  which  made  her  seem  as  far 
above  him  as  he  had  been  accustomed  to 
hold  himself  above  her  when  she  was 
merely  Tom's  little  hoiden  sister.  This 
feeling  was  only  intensified  by  the  fact 
that  whenever  they  met  now,  Jean,  not 
withstanding  his  own  blushing  awkward 
ness,  was  just  as  much  at  ease  and  just  as 
frank  and  friendly  as  she  had  ever  been 
before  he  had  begun  to  appreciate  what 
a  bewitching  creature  she  was,  and  how 
superior  she  was  in  every  respect  to  his 
gawky  self.  True,  she  was  somewhat  of 
a  little  hoiden  still,  but  Gid  Bronxon 


HOW    THE    DERBY   WAS   WON  59 

would  have  been  the  last  man  to  acknowl 
edge  it. 

On  his  final  return  from  college,  how 
ever,  he  had  outgrown,  in  some  degree, 
his  diffidence,  although  his  admiration  for 
her  who  had  inspired  it  was  stronger  than 
ever.  And  if  he  was  yet  disinclined  to 
seek  advancement  in  her  favor  by  any 
means  more  positive  than  he  had  formerly 
employed,  he  soon  saw  that  others  were 
more  aggressive,  and  this  spurred  him,  as 
perhaps  nothing  else  could  have  done,  to 
the  necessity  of  making  some  demonstra 
tion  in  his  own  behalf.  He  had  not  in 
tended  to  make  any  such  demonstration 
yet — certainly  not  before  he  had  at  least 
partially  repaired  his  fortunes,  although 
Jean's  piquancy  and  vivacity  were  evi 
dently  so  attractive  to  others,  less  back 
ward  and  more  plausible  than  he,  that  he 
found  himself  bordering  on  something 
like  desperation  before  he  had  been  at 
home  three  months.  And  so  one  day 


60  STORIES    OF   THE    SOUTH 


about  this  time,  when  Major  Heath,  who 
declared  that  he  was  getting  too  old  to 
give  his  farm  the  attention  it  needed,  sug 
gested  that  a  young  fellow  with  as  much 
"horse  sense"  as  Gid  ought  to  be  his 
chief  lieutenant,  Gid  replied,  in  the  flush 
of  the  moment,  that  he  a.greed  with  the 
Major  entirely  on  that  point,  and  before 
the  two  parted  it  was  settled  between 
them  that  the  younger  man  was  to  relieve 
the  older  one  of  the  duties  of  the  active 
management  of  the  Heath  farm. 

There  were  more  considerations  than 
one  which  were  instrumental  in  deciding 
Gid  to  enter  upon  this  arrangement.  In 
the  first  place,  the  salary  was  more  than 
he  could  hope  to  make,  with  his  lack  of 
capital,  on  what  remained  to  him  of  his 
father's  estate.  In  the  second  place,  no 
other  occupation  was  so  much  to  his  lik 
ing  as  the  breeding  and  care  of  blooded 
horses,  and  nowhere  else  would  he  have  a 
better  opportunity  to  follow  it.  In  the 


HOW   THE   DERBY   WAS   WON  6l 

last  place — perhaps  it  would  be  nearer  the 
truth  to  have  said  in  the  first  place — he 
was  not  uninfluenced  by  the  reflection 
that  he  would  be  under  the  same  roof 
with  Jean  ;  that  he  would  see  her  often, 
instead  of  rarely  at  all,  as  had  been  his 
self-imposed  restriction  for  so  long.  It 
would  be  an  injustice  to  him  to  infer  that 
he  accepted  the  Major's  proposition  with 
any  idea  of  advancing  himself  in  the 
graces  of  the  Major's  daughter.  He  had 
no  consciously  defined  thought  of  that  nat 
ure.  If  he  had  harbored  such  a  design 
at  that  time  he  could  easily  have  found 
occasion  for  attempting  to  further  it. 
The  truth  is,  that  while  he  had  deter 
mined  that  he  would  exert  no  effort  to  in 
spire  a  reciprocation  of  his  love  for  Jean 
Heath  until  his  worldly  prospects  should 
better  warrant  such  presumption,  he 
could  not  resist  the  temptation,  which  her 
father's  proposition  held  out  to  him,  of 
her  presence — of  hearing  the  cheeriness 


62  STORIES   OF   THE   SOUTH 


of  her  voice,  and  looking  upon  the  sun 
shine  of  her  hair  and  the  shadows  of  her 
eyes.  It  may  be  that  he  would  not  have 
resisted  this  temptation  if  any  reason  had 
occurred  to  him  why  he  should  resist  it ; 
but  no  such  reason  suggesting  itself,  he 
was  disturbed  by  no  doubts  as  to  the 
wisdom  of  his  decision,  and  it  was  but  a 
short  time  after  the  Major  had  broached 
the  matter  to  him  that  he  was  installed  as 
the  Major's  vice-regent. 

II. 

BUT  he  was  far  from  being  as  pleased 
with  life  at  the  Major's  as  he  had  thought 
he  would  be.  Not  that  his  work  was  any 
less  to  his  taste  than  he  had  anticipat 
ed,  or  that  he  could  have  given  any  defi 
nite  reason  for  his  disappointment.  But 
reason  there  was,  he  felt  rather  than 
knew;  and,  moreover,  felt  that  it  was 
connected  in  some  way  with  Jean  Heath. 


HOW   THE   DERBY   WAS   WON  63 

He  was  conscious  of  a  subtile  change  in 
her  manner  toward  him  from  the  first  day 
on  which  he  began  his  new  duties  —  a 
change  which  troubled  and  perplexed  him 
all  the  more  because  he  could  not  have 
put  it  into  words,  and  could  not  even  be 
sure  of  its  character.  His  impression 
was  convincing,  however,  that  he  had  in 
curred  her  displeasure  somehow,  and  that, 
while  she  treated  him  with  not  unkindly 
courtesy,  she  did  not  attempt  to  conceal 
from  him,  but  rather  intended  to  indicate 
to  him,  her  disapprobation  of — what  ?  He 
knew  no  explanation  for  this  altered  de 
meanor;  at  first  he  could  think  of  none  ; 
and  when,  after  much  gloomy  and  per 
turbing  speculation,  he  stumbled  on  one, 
he  stumbled  on  it  with  the  fatuity  of  a 
man  in  love,  and  ot  course  it  was  a  wrong 
one. 

It  was  not  an  explanation  which  tended 
to  make  him  less  dissatisfied  with  himself, 
or  to  render  his  stay  at  the  Major's  more 


64  STORIES   OF   THE   SOUTH 

like  what  he  had  foolishly  expected  it 
would  be.  On  the  contrary,  it  added  to 
his  discomfort  and  unhappiness  ;  for  it 
was  based  on  the  assumption  that  Jean 
had  interpreted  his  coming  to  her  home 
as  an  open  manifestation  of  a  purpose  to 
ingratiate  himself  with  her,  and  that  she 
regarded  it  with  disapproval,  if  not  with 
suspicion. 

He  was  all  the  more  confident  that  this 
was  the  true  solution  because  it  gave  him 
unlimited  ground  for  self-condemnation 
as  a  blundering  dolt,  and  for  riotous 
despondency  as  to  his  prospects  of  ever 
winning  the  love  of  the  only  girl  in  the 
world  whose  love  was  worth  winning. 
This  precipitation  of  hopelessness  was 
hardly  a  radical  reversal  of  the  point  of 
view  from  which  he  contemplated  his  love 
for  Jean  Heath  ;  for  he  had  long  had  pre 
monitions  that  some  time  it  would  come 
to  this,  and  often,  when  he  had  tried  to 
summon  common  sense  to  his  aid  in  re- 


HOW    THE    DERBY    WAS    WON  65 

solving  the  result  of  his  passion,  he  had 
about  convinced  himself  that  it  could 
come  to  nothing  else. 

His  inference  that  she  had  discovered, 
and  sought  to  rebuke  that  passion  was 
further  strengthened  by  her  graciousness 
to  other  men  who  did  not  conceal  their 
preferences  for  her,  and  especially  to 
Casey  Pallam,  a  handsome  young  Tennes- 
seean,  who,  having  recently  come  into  his 
fortune,  was  bent  upon  indulging  in  that 
embellishment  of  a  modern  gentleman's 
establishment,  a  racing  stable.  It  was  os 
tensibly  to  collect  such  a  stable  that  he 
was  in  Kentucky,  although  Gid  Bronxon 
was  perfectly  sure  that  this  did  not  require 
his  remaining  in  the  Bluegrass  so  long, 
or  spending  so  much  of  his  time  at  the 
Major's,  whose  sale  of  thoroughbreds,  as 
every  one  knew,  took  place  annually,  and 
in  public,  on  a  day  duly  advertised. 

Once  satisfied  that  his  presence  was 
distasteful  to  Jean  Heath,  there  was,  of 


66  STORIES    OF    THE   SOUTH 

course,  but  one  thing  for  Gid  to  do,  and 
he  was  prompt  in  doing  it.  Frankly  tell 
ing  the  Major  that  he  wished  to  be  re 
leased  from  their  agreement,  the  latter, 
although  not  pretending  to  understand 
the  motive  of  the  request,  seeing  that  it 
was  preferred  in  all  sincerity,  at  once 
assented  to  it ;  and  Gid  went  to  his  room 
and  made  his  preparations  for  leaving. 
These  completed,  he  returned  down 
stairs,  intending  to  send  back  for  his 
things  ;  and  as  he  stepped  from  the  house 
Jean  Heath  was  on  the  lawn,  humming  a 
song  and  trimming  her  rose-bushes. 

"  Good-by,  Miss  Jean,"  he  called  out, 
lightly,  as  he  walked  on  toward  the  gate. 

"Good-by?  Why,  where  are  you 
goin'  ? "  she  asked,  turning  to  him  in 
surprise. 

"Over  home,"  he  answered,  pausing 
and  facing  her.  "The  Major  and  I  have 
agreed  to  quit,"  with  a  moderately  suc 
cessful  attempt  at  a  smile. 


HOW   THE   DERBY   WAS   WON  67 


"  You — you  haven't  quarrelled,  have 
you?"  with  a  suspicion  of  something  in 
her  manner  that  might  have  suggested 
trepidation  to  her  only  auditor  if  he  had 
been  in  a  frame  of  mind  to  entertain  a 
distinct  consciousness  of  anything  of  less 
significance  than  that  he  was  going  away, 
and  that  he  was  leaving  all  his  hopes  be 
hind  him. 

"No;  we  haven't  quarrelled,"  he  re 
plied.  "  Of  course  not.  I  simply  asked 
him  to  release  me,  and  he  kindly  did  so." 

"  I'm  glad  you're  goin',"  suddenly  turn 
ing  to  the  rose-bush,  and  with  one  erratic 
clip  of  its  main  stem  destroying  all  her 
work  which  but  a  moment  before  she  had 
completed  to  her  satisfaction.  Then  she 
straightened  up,  as  if  impelled  by  a  quick 
after-thought,  and  confronted  him  again, 
flushing  almost  as  painfully  as  he  himself 
was  doing.  "  I  mean  I'm  glad  that — that 
you're  goin'  to  do  somethin'  else." 

But  whatever  her  meaning  might  have 


68  STORIES   OF   THE   SOUTH 

been,  Gid  was  incapable,  just  then,  of 
construing  it  except  literally.  Her  words 
were  to  him  fully  confirmatory  of  his  own 
convictions,  and  they  struck  him  with 
none  the  less  force  because  their  blunt- 
ness  was  not  altogether  uncharacteristic 
of  the  speaker. 

They  stung  him  into  a  desperation 
which  broke  into  such  expression  as  he 
would  have  shrunk  from  a  minute  before. 
"  I  know  it!  "  he  said.  "  I  know  you're 
glad  ;  you  need  not  take  the  trouble  to 
tell  me.  I'm  too  well  aware  that  my  love 
for  you  annoys  you  ;  but  I  did  not  intend 
to  speak  to  you  of  it  or  to " 

"  I  hope  you  didn't,  as  long  as  you  were 
satisfied  to — to  be — my  father's  servant !  " 
she  interrupted,  with  a  vehemence  that  to 
Gid  was  inexplicable. 

It  was  a  brutal  thing  to  say,  and  he  did 
not  feel  this  more  acutely  than  she,  as 
soon  as  it  was  said  ;  but  its  brutality  would 
not  have  been  without  avail  if  it  had  dis- 


HOW  THE   DERBY   WAS   WON          69 


closed  to  him,  as  it  might  have  done,  the 
true  cause  of  this  spirited  girl's  recent 
coldness  to  him. 

11  Oh  !  I  don't  mean — I  don't  mean " 

But  her  distress  was  unheeded,  perhaps 
unheard  ;  for  he  had  wheeled  and  was 
walking  rapidly  away.  She  let  her  prun- 
ing-shears  fall  unnoted  to  the  ground  as 
she  stood  mutely  looking  after  him,  and 
as  he  disappeared  through  the  gate  she 
covered  her  face  for  an  instant  with  her 
hands  and  then  ran,  as  if  in  fright,  into 
the  house. 

Meanwhile  Gid  stalked  on  homeward, 
not  turning  his  head  to  one  side  or  the 
other,  except  once  to  glare  stolidly  at  the 
handsome  roadsters  of  Casey  Pallam  as 
he  rattled  by  toward  the  Major's. 

III. 

Two  weeks  later  the  annual  sale  of  the 
Major's  yearlings  took  place.  Gid  was 


70  STORIES   OF   THE   SOUTH 


not  present,  it  being  the  first  of  the  sales 
that  he  had  ever  missed,  except  those 
which  had  occurred  during  his  absence  at 
college.  He  had  a  representative  in  at 
tendance,  however,  in  Bob  Ozley,  whom 
he  commissioned  to  buy,  if  he  could  with 
the  limited  capital  put  at  his  disposal, 
certain  of  the  colts  and  fillies  whose  num 
bers  Gid  had  marked  on  the  catalogue  for 
his  friend's  guidance. 

For  Gid  had  determined,  within  the 
fortnight  intervening  between  his  depart 
ure  from  the  Major's  and  the  sale,  that  he 
would  go  into  business  for  himself,  and 
business  with  him,  as  has  been  noted 
already,  meant  horses.  Concerning  one 
thing  he  had  made  up  his  mind  :  he  would 
regain,  if  possible,  by  his  own  efforts,  the 
estate  which  his  father  had  squandered. 
His  desire  to  do  this  was  impatiently 
strong  since  that  galling  taunt  of  Jean 
Heath's,  and  although  he  told  himself 
that  henceforth  Jean  Heath  was  as  dead 


HOW   THE    DERBY   WAS   WON          7! 

to  him  as  poor  Tom  Heath  himself,  yet 
he  knew  that  his  greatest  incentive  to  the 
recuperation  of  his  fortunes  which  he  pro 
posed  was  his  wish,  in  the  vindication  of 
his  self-respect,  that  she  should  see,  and 
be  compelled  to  acknowledge,  his  pros 
perity. 

He  procured  fifteen  hundred  dollars  by 
mortgaging  his  little  farm,  and  this  he 
authorized  Bob  Ozley  to  invest  in  young 
thoroughbreds  at  the  sale. 

"  Couldn't  do  much  for  you,  Gid," 
Ozley  reported.  "  But  I  bid  in  three 
youngsters,  though  they  were  not  the  ones 
you  wanted  most.  Your  first  choices 
brought  higher  figures  than  our  pile 
would  reach. " 

"Yes,  I  expected  that." 

"  But  I  got  you  the  Babctte  colt  for 
seven  hundred,  and  the  Paguita  filly  for 
five-fifty.  They're  good,  for  the  money, 
I  think.  Then  I  had  no  trouble  about 
that  two-year-old  Brunhilde  colt.  Nobody 


72  STORIES   OF   THE   SOUTH 

seemed  to  want  him,  and  pretty  much 
everybody  laughed  when  he  was  knocked 
down  to  me  for  one  hundred  and  sixty 
dollars.  What  do  you  want  with  the  ugly 
beast,  anyway?  " 

Gid  smiled.  "  He  isn't  a  beauty  ;  but  I 
have  an  idea  that  there  is  some  outcome 
in  him  if  his  villainous  temper  can  be 
cured." 

"  Well,  I  shouldn't  care  to  have  him  on 
my  hands,  even  at  the  price.  Why  wasn't 
he  sold  twelve  months  ago  as  a  yearling  ? 
Nobody  wanted  him  ?  " 

"That  was  it,"  Gid  smiled.  "  If  you 
call  him  ugly  now,  you  ought  to  have 
seen  him  as  a  yearling.  I  remember  very 
well  no  one  would  make  a  bid  for  him 
then,  and  he  and  the  Alsatia  colt,  who 
was  sick  and  was  not  offered,  were  the 
only  two  in  last  year's  catalogue  that  were 
not  sold." 

"Ah!  that  Alsatia  colt  is  a  jewel; 
brought  the  top  price  to-day,  too." 


HOW   THE   DERBY   WAS   WON  73 

"  He  ought  to  have  done  so.  Who  got 
him  ?  " 

"  Casey  Pallam.  All  the  high-rollers 
were  after  him,  but  Pallam  outlasted  them 
and  bid  him  in  for  eight  thousand  and  five 
hundred." 

"  He's  worth  it,  in  my  opinion,"  Gid 
answered  ;  "  and  if  Pallam  runs  him  this 
season  he  ought  to  win  him  out  as  a  two- 
year-old.  Major  Heath  thinks  him  the 
finest  colt  he  ever  bred — better  even  than 
Moloch,  who  was  last  year's  wonder." 

"  Maybe  he  won't  have  such  smooth 
sailing,  after  all,  if  you  start  your  Brun- 
hilde  wonder  against  him,"  Ozley  sug 
gested,  with  a  grin. 

"  Never  mind  about  my  Brunhilde 
wonder.  He  won't  have  to  run  against 
Alsatia  colts  often,  I  reckon.  Besides,  I 
don't  expect  to  start  him  until  he  is  three 
years  old.  It  will  take  a  year  to  civilize 
him." 

Gid  was  satisfied  with  his  friend's  pur- 


74  STORIES    OF    THE    SOUTH 


chases.  The  Babette  colt  and  the  Paquita 
filly  were  excellently  bred  animals,  and 
gave  every  promise  of  becoming  service 
able  racers.  The  Brunhilde  colt  was  a 
whim  of  his,  although  it  was  based  on  his 
perception  of  good  points  in  the  ungainly 
youngster,  which  he  thought  might  de 
velop  with  careful  handling,  notwithstand 
ing  the  suspicion  that  there  was  a  flaw  in 
his  pedigree.  He  was  registered  as  by 
Glenelg,  or  "  unknown,"  out  of  Brunhilde, 
a  Bonnie  Scotland  mare  ;  and  as  that 
ominous  "  unknown  "  afforded  ground 
for  an  assumption  that  the  colt  was  a  half- 
breed,  or,  at  least,  that  he  was  not  a 
thoroughbred,  that  assumption  was,  in  ac 
cordance  with  a  certain  law  of  human 
nature,  more  generally  made  than  the 
equally  reasonable  assumption  that  he 
was  a  Glenelg,  and  therefore,  a  thorough 
bred — or  rather  the  assumption  that  would 
have  been  equally  as  reasonable  as  the 
less  generous  one,  if  the  latter  had  not 


HOW   THE    DERBY   WAS   WON  75 

been,  to  some  extent,  confirmed  by  the 
uncomely  appearance  of  the  colt.  Gid, 
however,  was  willing  to  take  the  risk  of  an 
imperfect  pedigree.  If  the  colt  did  unite 
the  blood  of  Glenelg  and  Bonnie  Scotland 
it  was  well  enough  bred  for  any  purpose, 
and  he  was  not  sure  that  if  his  one-hun- 
dred-and-sixty-dollar  investment  was  only 
a  Bonnie  Scotland  half-breed  it  would  not 
be  able  to  cope  with  many  of  the  fashion 
able  strains  of  the  modern  turf ;  for  Gid 
shared  the  opinion  of  some  very  astute 
horsemen,  that  among  all  her  illustrious 
citizens  the  State  of  Tennessee  can  cher 
ish  no  worthier  name  than  that  of  Bonnie 
Scotland,  the  dead  progenitor  of  one  of 
the  noblest  lines  of  race-horses. 

IV. 

AT  the  opening  of  the  following  spring 
he  was  forced  to  admit  that  his  hopes  of 
success  in  his  new  business  depended  on 


76  STORIES   OF   THE   SOUTH 

this  ill-favored  colt.  His  Paquita  filly  had 
died,  and  his  Babette  colt,  after  taking  to 
training  most  kindly  and  showing  indica 
tions  of  exceptional  quality,  had  gone 
lame  and  had  been  turned  out  for  the  sea 
son.  Unless,  therefore,  the  Brunkildeco\t 
should  prove  better  than  the  general  esti 
mate  of  him,  Gid  realized  that  he  had  not 
only  failed  at  the  very  outset  of  his  under 
taking,  but  that  he  had  lost  in  the  venture 
what  little  property  his  father  had  left  him. 
He  was  not  at  all  sanguine  about  the 
colt,  which  was  as  surly  and  vicious  a  brute 
as  ever  rebelled  against  bit  or  saddle,  and 
which  (whatever  could  be  said  in  his  com 
mendation)  looked  more  like  a  camel  than 
a  race-horse.  It  was  in  a  moment  of  dis 
gust  at  these  characteristics  of  the  colt 
that  Gid  bestowed  upon  him  the  name  of 
Yaboo,  the  designation  by  which  the 
Persians  contemptuously  distinguish  their 
native  drudge  horses  from  their  highly 
prized  Turcomans  and  Arabians. 


HOW   THE   DERBY    WAS    WON  77 

He  had  placed  Yaboo  in  the  hands  of 
Uncle  Lije  Heath,  to  whom  the  Major, 
his  old  master,  had  given  a  strip  of  ground 
adjacent  to  the  Heath  farm,  and  who,  fol 
lowing  the  honored  and  responsible  call 
ing  of  a  public  trainer,  had  won  the 
confidence  of  the  community  and  so  pros 
pered  as  to  add  enough  land  to  the 
Major's  gift  to  enable  him  to  lay  off  a 
half-mile  track,  on  which  he  "worked" 
the  horses  committed  to  his  care.  It  was 
with  some  misgiving  that  Uncle  Lije  had 
undertaken  to  prepare  Yaboo  for  the  turf. 
He  not  only  felt  sure  that  the  "  varrnint " 
was  "  cold-blooded,"  but  that  even  if  there 
was  the  making  of  a  race-horse  in  him  it 
would  be  impossible  to  do  anything  with 
him  on  account  of  his  temper.  But,  as 
Yaboo  belonged  to  "Mr.  Gid,"  who  had 
been  the  friend  of  "  Marse  Tom  "  and  a 
special  protege  of  Uncle  Lije's,  the  old 
trainer  consented  to  take  charge  of  the 
colt  and  promised  to  do  the  best  he  could 


78  STORIES   OF    THE   SOUTH 

with  him.  "  "Sides,"  he  added,  "  dey  ain't 
no  tellin'  how  he  mout  turn  out,  nohow,  I 
ain't  nuvver  seed  de  hawse  yit  wid  a  drap 
o'  ole  Bonnie  Scotlan  s  blood  in  his  veins 
dat  anybody  got  any  call  to  say  he  ain't 
no  'count  fo'  he's  had  a  fa'r  show." 

As  the  winter  broke  and  the  mild 
weather  gave  Uncle  Lije  an  opportunity 
to  put  the  colt  into  active  training,  the 
old  man  began  to  make  more  encourag 
ing  reports  concerning  his  charge.  "  He 
des  ez  mean  ez  ever,  Mr.  Gid — en  da's  de 
meanis  I  ever  come  acrost  yit.  He  all 
heels  en  teef  whenever  you  come  nigh 
him,  en  wunst  you  git  on  his  back  de  Lawd 
knows  whah  you  gwiner  Ian'  de  nex' 
minute.  Wid  his  buckin*  en  r'arin'  en 
sulkin'  I  ain't  nuvver  seed  his  ekal  ;  you 
git  him  on  de  track  en  he  lunge  all  over 
it,  wid  his  head  'twixt  his  laigs,  er  stan'- 
nin'  straight  up  on  his  hine  feet  ;  en  ef 
you  do  git  him  started  des  likely  ez  not  he 
gwiner  bolt  clean  over  de  fence  To'  you 


HOW   THE    DERBY    WAS    WON  79 

know  whut  he  gwiner  do  nex'.  He  doin' 
a  leetle  better  dough  now,  sence  Alec 
Saffel  commenced  wukin  wid  him.  Some 
how  he  sorter  takes  to  Alec  mo'n  to  any 
body  else,  cepn— cepn — I  mean  Alec's  de 
onles  boy  he'll  let  ride  him  to  do  any 
good  ;  en  dis  mawnin  Alec  he  wuked  him 
a  mile  in  '49,  en  dat  ain't  so  bad  fer  a 
hawse  ez  high  in  flesh  ez  Yaboo  is  yit. " 

It  was  Gid's  intention  to  start  Yaboo  in 
the  Kentucky  Derby,  the  great  race  of 
the  South  and  West  for  three-year-olds, 
if  the  colt's  improvement  should  be  such 
as  to  warrant  anything  like  a  reasonable 
hope  that  he  might  be  of  sufficiently  high 
class  to  stand  even  a  remote  chance  of 
winning  the  stake.  As  the  time  ap 
proached  for  the  race  Gid  began  to  feel 
that  there  might  be  such  a  chance,  if  Yaboo 
could  be  prevailed  upon  to  run  kindly  ; 
for,  with  one  or  two  exceptions,  the  three- 
year-olds  of  that  season  were  not  con 
sidered  extraordinary,  and  even  Yaboo 


80  STORIES   OF   THE   SOUTH 

might  be  good  enough  to  run  with  them, 
if  Yaboo  could  be  induced  to  run  at  all. 
Of  course,  nothing  in  the  race  could  expect 
to  contest  it  with  Huguenot,  if  Huguenot 
came  to  the  post  in  good  condition.  Hugue 
not — who  was  the  Alsatia  colt  Casey  Pal- 
lam  had  bought  at  the  Major's  sale — had 
proved  the  best  of  the  preceding  season's 
two-year-olds,  winning  nine  successive 
stakes,  and  retiring  into  winter  quarters 
with  an  unbeaten  record.  It  was  generally 
conceded,  and  by  none  more  freely  than 
by  Gid,  that  if  the  colt  did  not  go  amiss 
he  would  also  have  the  principal  three- 
year-old  stakes  at  his  mercy.  But  the  un 
certainties  of  spring  racing  led  Gid  to 
decide  that  if  anything  should  happen  to 
prevent  what  seemed  the  inevitable  vic 
tory  of  Huguenot  in  the  Derby,  Yaboo 
should,  if  possible,  be  ready  to  compete 
for  the  prize. 

Meanwhile,  during  the  year  which  had 
elapsed    since    his    departure    from    the 


HOW    THE    DERBY   WAS   WON  8l 


Major's,  he  had  not  seen  Jean  Heath,  ex 
cept  at  a  distance — across  the  pews  at 
church,  perhaps,  or  dashing  over  the 
country  with  her  father  or  friends  ;  for  she 
was  a  reckless  and  adept  horsewoman. 

About  two  weeks  before  the  date  fixed 
for  the  Derby  Gid  rode  over  to  Uncle 
Lije's  to  look  at  Yaboo,  and  just  before 
'reaching  the  gate  into  the  old  trainer's 
domain  he  saw  two  female  figures  on 
horseback  ride  through  it  and  gallop  off 
down  the  road.  One  of  them  he  recog 
nized  as  Jean  ;  but  the  fact  that  she  had 
visited  Uncle  Lije  or  Aunt  Polly  was  in 
no  way  surprising  to  him,  for  he  knew  that 
those  two  worthies,  who  considered  them 
selves  members  in  good  standing  of  the 
Heath  family,  enjoyed  the  special  favor 
of  the  Major  and  his  daughter,  and  that 
the  latter  had  succeeded  to  the  place  in 
Uncle  Lije's  affections  which  perhaps 
only  the  sister  of  "  Marse  Tom  "  could 
have  filled. 


82  STORIES   OF   THE   SOUTH 

As  the  two  figures  on  horseback  dis 
appeared  behind  a  green  swell  of  the  un 
dulating  meadow  that  swept  the  smooth 
turnpike  out  of  view  Gid  withdrew  his 
eyes  from  that  point  of  the  landscape,  and 
turning  through  the  gate,  rode  around  to 
the  stables,  where  he  found  Uncle  Lije  in 
the  act  of  removing  a  side-saddle  from  the 
back  of  Yaboo.  The  old  trainer  cast  a 
somewhat  apprehensive  glance  at  Gid, 
and  shaking  his  head  wisely  and  grinning 
in  a  manner  not  to  be  explained  by  any 
evident  provocation,  hastened  to  say,  be 
fore  Gid  had  an  opportunity  to  speak  him 
self  : 

"  He's  comin'  on,  Mr.  Gid,  he's  comin' 
on  ;  wuked  a  mile  dis  mawnin'  wid  his 
shoes  on  in  '47.  De  ole  Bonnie  Scotlan 
blood  begins  to  warm  up,  I  tell  you  !  Ef 
he  keeps  on  disaway  dey'll  hear  fum  us  in 
dat  Derby  yit,  en  Huguenot  he  gotter  be 
feelin  lak  hisse'f  ef  he  wanter  have  a 
walk-over." 


HOW   THE    DERBY   WAS   WON  83 


"  But  why  have  you  had  that  side-saddle 
on  him  ?  "  Gid  asked,  with  more  dignity 
than  usually  characterized  his  conversa 
tion  with  Uncle  Lije. 

"  Oh,  dat  ain't  gwiner  do  no  harm," 
evasively. 

"  Uncle  Lije,  one  of  those  ladies  who 
left  here  a  few  minutes  ago  has  been  rid 
ing  Yaboo  !  " 

11  Well,  dat  don't  mek  no  diffunce,"  the 
old  negro  replied,  uneasily.  "  Alec  Saffel 
he  wuz  sick  dis  mawnin',  en  Miss  Jean  she 
happen  to  come  by,  en  she  took  it  into 
her  head  she  wanter  breeze  Yaboo  'roun' 
de  track,  en  long's  Yaboo  need  de  wuk, 
en  long's  Miss  Jean  she  alluz  could  do  mo* 
wid  dat  hawse  den  any  yuther  livin'  soul, 
not  scusin'  Alec  Saffel  hisse'f,  I  s'posed  I 
mout  ez  well  let  her  have  her  way." 

As  he  thought  of  Jean  Heath  riding  that 
fiendish  brute,  Gid  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life  burned  with  anger  against  Uncle  Lije. 
Taking  the  saddle  from  the  ground,  he 


84  STORIES   OF   THE   SOUTH 

tossed  it  with  some  vehemence  under  the 
shed,  enjoining  Uncle  Lije  that  he  was 
never,  upon  penalty  of  having  the  horse 
shot,  to  allow  Miss  Heath  to  touch  Yaboo 
again. 

"  Yes,  suh,"  he  answered  in  bewilder 
ment  ;  "  but,"  he  added,  under  his  breath, 
as  he  turned  to  throw  a  blanket  over 
Yaboo,  "  I'd  ruther  be  hamstrung  den  tell 
Honey  dat." 

V. 

IT  was  Derby  day  in  Kentucky.  For 
weeks  past  its  approach  had  been  the  in 
centive  to  more  comment  than  any  other 
day  on  the  calendar,  Christmas  alone,  per 
haps,  excepted.  For  months  even  the 
papers  had  devoted  a  liberal  portion  of 
their  space  to  daily  discussions  of  the 
horses  which  might  be  expected  to  start  in 
the  Derby  and  their  relative  chances  of 
winning  it.  This  space  had  gradually  in 
creased  as  the  day  drew  -nearer,  until  for 


HOW   THE   DERBY   WAS   WON  85 

a  fortnight  immediately  preceding  its 
dawn  the  Derby  gossip  had  been  the  most 
conspicuous  feature  of  the  local  columns 
of  the  Louisville  press,  while  there  had 
been  no  important  journal  throughout  the 
country  which  had  not  kept  its  readers 
informed  by  telegraph  of  all  the  news  that 
could  be  gleaned  concerning  the  race. 
Speculation  about  it  was  general,  even 
among  those  who  knew  nothing  of  the 
thoroughbred  and  cared  nothing  for  the 
sport. 

It  was  a  strong  evidence  of  the  hold  this 
race  has  upon  the  Kentuckians  that  this 
spring,  when  it  was  conceded  on  all  sides 
that  it  would  be  a  "gift"  to  Huguenot, 
the  lack  of  the  usual  element  of  uncer 
tainty  could  not  degrade  Derby  day  from 
its  pre-eminence  in  popular  interest.  At 
that  time  the  Kentucky  Derby  was  not  only 
the  first  of  the  great  regular  events  of  the 
American  turf,  but  it  was  more  coveted  by 
horsemen  than  any  other  prize  of  the  year. 


86  STORIES   OF   THE   SOUTH 

In  it  the  prides  of  the  Bluegrass  met  on 
equal  terms  the  giants  of  the  Pacific  slope 
and  the  choicest  of  the  Eastern  three- 
year-olds,  and  five  minutes  after  the 
struggle  was  over  the  conqueror  was  worth 
to  his  owner  a  respectable  fortune  ;  for  in 
addition  to  the  five  or  six  thousand  dollars 
which  the  stake  was  worth,  the  winner 
also  usually  won  with  the  stake  that  which 
was  of  far  greater  value,  the  reputation  of 
being  the  best  colt  of  his  age  this  side  of 
England. 

To-day  all  roads  in  some  way  connected 
with  Louisville.  The  Bluegrass  plateau 
was  virtually  depopulated.  The  Legis 
lature  had  adjourned  for  the  occasion  and 
come  down  from  Frankfort  the  night  be 
fore,  followed  by  the  Governor  and  the 
rest  of  the  State  officers.  Tennessee, 
Indiana,  Ohio,  to  say  nothing  of  other 
more  distant  sections  of  the  country,  were 
largely  represented  by  crowds  of  visitors 
that  overflowed  the  hotels  and  filled  the 


HOW   THE    DERBY   WAS   WON  87 


lean  maws  of  the  boarding-houses.  It 
was  a  holiday  in  the  city  ;  many  of  the 
shops  and  stores  were  closed  ;  others 
dozed  with  one  door  open,  while  some 
clerk,  less  fortunate  than  his  fellows,  kept 
lonely  vigil  within.  The  May  sun  never 
shone  with  more  exhilarating  splendor, 
and  by  twelve  o'clock  the  avenues  leading 
to  the  race-course  at  Churchill  Downs  be 
gan  to  assume  an  unwonted  animation. 
The  street-cars  were  packed  with  people, 
and  an  unusual  number  of  vehicles  rolled 
over  the  thoroughfares.  By  two  o'clock 
the  principal  boulevard  leading  to  the 
Downs  was  a  vivid  panorama  of  speeding 
roadsters  and  whirring  wheels,  the  gala 
procession  swelled  by  every  conveyance 
that  could  be  pressed  into  service. 

At  Churchill  Downs  everything  had 
been  put  in  readiness  for  this  long-expect 
ed  afternoon.  Club  house  and  grand 
stand  were  jauntily  repainted  ;  the  hedges 
were  primly  trimmed  ;  the  lawns  and 


STORIES   OF   THE   SOUTH 

flower-beds  were  as  freshly  and  geomet 
rically  irreproachable  as  nature  and  man 
could  make  them  ;  the  field  around  which 
the  race-course  winds  was  one  great  ellip 
soid  of  wimpling  bluegrass  ;  while  the 
course  itself  had  been  cudgelled  and  coz 
ened  into  a  smooth  and  soft  elasticity 
whose  very  touch  beneath  his  hoofs  would 
make  the  veriest  "  plug"  feel  for  the  mo 
ment  as  if  the  blood  of  all  Arabia  bound 
ed  in  his  veins. 

By  half-past  two,  when  the  first  race 
was  called,  the  grand-stand  was  thronged  ; 
the  overflowing  crowd  filled  the  grounds 
about  it,  and  the  grass  of  the  field  was 
crushed  and  hidden  from  sight  beneath 
the  feet  of  thousands,  who  stood  in  the 
sun,  and  joked  and  laughed  and  scuffled, 
waiting  for  the  running  of  the  great  race. 

Gid  Bronxon  had  decided  to  start  Yaboo 
in  the  Derby,  although  he  had  no  real 
hope  of  beating  Huguenot,  whom  he  knew 
to  be  in  excellent  condition.  But  there  is 


HOW   THE   DERBY  WAS   WON  89 

always  a  possibility  that  some  accident 
may  befall  the  best  of  horses  ;  and,  be 
sides,  it  would  be  worth  something  to 
anybody's  colt  to  run  as  well  as  second  to 
Huguenot,  as  Uncle  Lije  had  more  than 
once  insisted.  Young  Bronxon  did  not 
begrudge  Huguenot  his  coming  triumph  ; 
he  was  too  genuine  an  admirer  of  fleet- 
ness  and  gameness  in  a  thoroughbred  not 
to  admire  at  all  times  his  triumph  honestly 
won.  Nevertheless,  he  could  not  help 
feeling  somewhat  rebellious  against  his 
untoward  fate  that  he  should  be  prevented 
from  winning  this  race,  which  would  mean 
so  much  to  him,  by  the  superiority  of  a 
horse  whose  owner  was,  of  all  men,  Casey 
Pallam,  the  fortune-favored  young  Ten- 
nesseean,  who,  if  report  was  reliable,  was 
no  surer  of  winning  the  Derby  than  he 
was  of  winning  Jean  Heath  herself. 

The  first  race  was  a  three-quarter-mile 
dash,  with  nearly  a  score  of  contestants, 
whose  coyness  and  fretfulness  at  the  post 


90  STORIES    OF    THE    SOUTH 


were  watched  with  impatience  by  the 
spectators,  who  resented  anything  that 
would  delay  the  principal  race  of  the  day. 
A  start  was  at  last  made,  with  every  jockey 
fighting  for  the  lead  ;  and  as  they  turned 
into  the  homestretch  one  of  the  horses 
was  seen  to  fall,  and  immediately  after 
ward  another  tumbled  over  him.  As  the 
second  went  down  Gid  Bronxon,  who  was 
watching  the  race  through  a  pair  of  field- 
glasses,  uttered  a  slight  exclamation  and 
hastened  toward  the  scene  of  the  accident. 
The  two  fallen  horses  were  quickly  on 
their  feet,  none  the  worse  for  their  misad 
venture,  and  one  of  the  jockeys  also  sprang 
up,  laughingly  brushing  the  dust  from  his 
gorgeously  colored  jacket ;  but  the  other 
rider  lay  where  he  had  been  thrown,  and 
as  Gid  came  up  he  saw  that  the  boy  was, 
as  he  had  thought,  Alec  Saffel.  A  phy 
sician,  who  was  not  hard  to  find  in  the 
crowd  which  had  hurried  to  the  spot,  de 
clared  that  the  little  fellow  had  suffered 


HOW   THE   DERBY   WAS   WON  91 


no  injury  more  serious  than  the  dislocation 
of  a  shoulder.  Gid  had  him  taken  to  the 
club-house  and  properly  cared  for  ;  and 
then  walked  out  listlessly  on  the  lawn,  his 
hands  aimlessly  in  his  pockets  and  his 
eyes  fixed  vacuously  on  the  variegated 
foliage  of  the  plants  that  shaped  a  jockey's 
cap  and  saddle  at  his  feet.  His  last 
chance  of  winning  the  Derby,  insignificant 
as  it  had  been,  had  gone,  for  young  Saf- 
fel's  mishap  would  prevent  him  riding 
Yaboo,  and  even  if  another  good  jockey 
could  be  secured  at  that  late  hour,  it  was 
extremely  improbable  that  anyone  unfa 
miliar  with  the  horse  would  be  able  to 
manage  him. 

Uncle  Lije  came  slowly  forward,  look 
ing  so  lugubrious  that  Gid,  who  was  not 
wearing  a  very  cheerful  expression  him 
self,  could  not  repress  a  smile.  "  Well, 
Mr.  Gid,"  forlornly,  "luck's  gone  agin 
us." 

"  It  seems  so,  Uncle  Lije." 


92  STORIES   OF   THE   SOUTH 


"  I  knowed  sumpn  bad  wus  gwiner  hap 
pen  'fo'  night,  case  I  tied  one  shoe  'fo'  I 
put  on  tother  dis  mawnin,  en  I  ain't  nuvver 
seed  dat  sign  miss  yit." 

"  Well,  we'll  have  to  withdraw  Yaboo 
and  save  him  for  some  other  day.  Alec 
will  be  all  right  before  the  meeting  is  over, 
I  reckon,"  Gid  answered,  with  some  at 
tempt  at  consolation. 

"  We  gotter  try  fer  de  Derby  anyhow," 
Uncle  Lije  maintained.  "  Dat  race  wuff 
mo'  to  us  den  all  de  res'  Yaboo  kin  run  in 
de  whole  meetin' — you  know  dat  widout 
me  tellin'  you,  Mr.  Gid.  So  I  done  got 
dis-yere  boy  Whitlock  to  ride  him,  stid- 
dier  Alec.  We  hatter  take  our  chances, 
Mr.  Gid,  dough  de  Lawd  knows  dey 
mighty  slim  shakes.  Alec  Saffel  de  onles 
boy  yit  ever  could  do  anything  wid  dat 
Yaboo:' 

Gid  authorized  Uncle  Lije  to  do  what 
ever  he  thought  best,  and  then  made  his 
way  absently  to  a  seat  high  up  in  the 


HOW   THE   DERBY   WAS   WON  93 

grand-stand.  There  he  sat  until  after  the 
second  race,  with  his  head  bared  grate 
fully  to  the  breeze,  and  his  eyes  directed 
toward  the  misty  billows  of  the  Indiana 
hills.  And  as  he  gazed  at  them  they 
seemed,  as  from  a  majestic  amphitheatre, 
to  look  down  with  exalted  indifference 
upon  this  paltry  scene  of  excitement  and 
contention  about  him  ;  and  catching  some 
thing  of  the  spirit  of  their  philosophical 
serenity,  he  told  himself  that  a  man  was 
a  fool  who,  with  no  more  resources  than 
his,  ventured  upon  the  turf  with  the  ex 
pectation  of  keeping  his  head  above  it. 
Reaching  this  sagacious  conclusion,  he 
diverted  his  eyes  from  the  Indiana  hills  to 
a  certain  spot  in  the  ladies'  section  of  the 
grand-stand,  where  Jean  Heath  and  her 
aunt  were  sitting. 

This  change  of  view  did  not  result  in  re 
flections  that  were  particularly  profitable 
or  pleasing,  for  perhaps  the  most  definite 
impressions  which  he  received  were,  that 


94  STORIES    OF    THE   SOUTH 


the  bonnet  of  Jean's  aunt  was  aggressively 
old-fashioned  as  she  sat  among  those  sty 
lish  Louisville  girls,  and  that  the  clothes 
of  Casey  Pallam,  who  was  constantly  say 
ing  something  that  made  Jean  laugh, 
were  conspicuously  new  and  his  diamonds 
were  disgustingly  dazzling. 


VI. 

AT  four  o'clock  the  bell  rang  to  call  the 
horses  from  the  stables  for  the  Derby. 
Most  of  them,  however,  had  already  been 
on  the  track  for  several  minutes,  taking 
their  "warming-up  canters,"  in  hoods 
and  blankets,  preliminary  to  the  desper 
ate  struggle  through  which  they  were  ex 
pected  to  go  a  little  later.  As  they 
brushed  by  the  stand  many  were  the 
glasses  levelled  upon  them  and  as  many 
were  the  criticisms  passed  upon  their 
movements  and  prospects  ;  while  the  uni- 


HOW   THE    DERBY    WAS   WON  95 


versal  inquiry  was,  "  Which  is  Hugue 
not?" 

If  it  was  difficult  to  distinguish  Hugue 
not  from  the  other  blanketed  figures,  there 
was  one  horse,  at  least,  easy  of  identifica 
tion  by  those  who  knew  him  ;  for  as  the 
others  were  galloping  around  the  course, 
away  across  the  field,  at  one  of  the  gates 
opening  from  the  stables  to  the  track,  he 
was  prancing  and  plunging,  resisting  all 
efforts  to  coax  or  drive  him.  Gid  Bronx- 
on  knew,  even  before  he  focussed  his 
glasses  upon  the  refractory  beast  and  rec 
ognized  Uncle  Lije  at  his  head,  that  it 
was  Yaboo. 

At  the  ringing  of  the  second  bell — the 
signal  that  the  horses  should  be  saddled 
for  the  race — there  was  a  suddenly  in 
creased  stir  among  the  concourse  of  peo 
ple  that  stretched  far  back  beyond  the 
grand-stand  to  the  long  pavilion  where 
the  odds  were  laid  against  the  wise  men's 
ability  to  "pick  the  winner."  It  was  to 


96  STORIES    OF    THE   SOUTH 


this  spot  that  hundreds  were  pressing, 
madmen  for  the  moment  in  their  efforts  to 
"back  their  judgment;"  surging  like 
fierce  breakers  against  the  rocks  to  dash 
their  money  on  their  favorites.  "  Hugue 
not!  "  "  Huguenot !  "  was  the  cry  from  all 
quarters.  Everybody  wanted  "Hugue 
not"  the  "sure  thing,"  and  such  a  con 
tinuous  rush  was  made  upon  him  that  he 
was  "  swept  off  the  boards." 

"Long  odds  against  the  outsiders!" 
was  the  itinerant  chorus.  "  Anything  you 
want  against  the  short  ones  !  "  "  Who  is 
this  Yaboo  ?  Fifty  to  one  Yaboo  /"  "  One 
hundred  to  one  Yaboo!" 

"Boss,  gimme  two  dollars'  wuff  dat 
hunnud  to  one  Yaboo"  said  Uncle  Lije, 
who  having  succeeded  in  getting  the 
horse  on  the  track,  had  slipped  over  for  a 
moment  "  to  take  a  look  at  de  odds." 

"What  do  you  know  about  Yaboo, 
Uncle  ?  "  some  one  inquired,  eager  for  a 
"  tip  "  from  the  old  trainer,  as  he  walked 


STORIES    OF   THE    SOUTH 


away  with  his  bit  of  pasteboard  calling 
for  $202  if  Yaboo  should  win. 

"  No'h'n' — don't  nobody  know  no'h'n' 
'bout  dat  hawse.  I  des  reskin'  two  dol 
lars  on  his  Bonnie  Scotlari  blood." 

"  Then  you  don't  think  he  stands  any 
chance  of  winning  ?  " 

"  I  dun-know  no'h'n'  'bout  dat ;  but  ef 
he  takes  it  into  his  head  dat  he  feels  lak 
runnin'  dis  evenin',  en  his  rider  kin  keep 
him  fum  boltin'  de  track,  er  jumpin'  de 
fence,  er  cuttin'  up  some  er  his  oudacious 
shines,  de  hawse  whut  beats  him  is  gotter 
call  on  all  fo'  his  laigs,  da's  all." 

The  horses  were  over  in  the  paddock 
now,  their  grooms  sponging  their  mouths, 
tightening  girths  and  giving  them  other 
last  touches  of  preparation  for  the  race. 
Most  of  them  were  ready,  and  were  being 
led  slowly  around  the  paddock,  while  the 
jockeys  stood  about,  receiving  the  final 
instructions  and  waiting  the  signal  to 
mount  and  proceed  to  the  starting-post. 


HOW   THE   DERBY   WAS   WON  99 

The  signal  was  not  long  in  coming. 
The  president  of  the  club,  with  his  coat 
buttoned  tightly  about  him  and  a  flower 
on  his  lapel,  arose  in  the  judge's  stand, 
and  with  a  deliberation  worthy  the  im 
portance  of  the  moment,  rang  the  bell  for 
the  third  and  last  time.  Instantly  there 
was  a  wild  break  from  the  grounds  below 
to  the  grand-stand,  which  was  already  full, 
and  every  foot  of  space  was  found  and  oc 
cupied  by  some  one  anxious  to  secure  a 
position  from  which  to  witness  the  race. 
From  end  to  end  the  stand  was  one  ser 
ried  mass  of  people,  packed  tier  above 
tier,  its  right  section  fluttering  with  the 
ribbons  and  the  fans  of  the  ladies,  who 
in  their  holiday  attire  presented,  from  a 
slight  distance,  the  appearance  of  a  vast 
matted  bank  of  many -colored,  breeze- 
stirred  bloom.  The  sward  between  the 
grand-stand  and  the  track  was  thronged, 
and  over  in  the  field  the  inner  circum 
ference  of  the  course,  for  a  quarter  of  a 


100  STORIES    OF   THE   SOUTH 

mile,  was  a  great  crescent  of  swarming 
human  beings,  on  foot,  on  horseback,  and 
in  all  varieties  of  vehicles.  Across  the 
field  the  roofs  of  the  stables,  which  cir 
cumscribe  the  course,  were  black  with 
men  and  boys,  and  even  beyond  the  limits 
of  the  Association's  grounds  the  trees  and 
the  telegraph-poles  were  living  witnesses 
of  the  scene. 

One  of  the  Kentucky  senators  occupied 
a  seat  in  the  judges'  stand,  while  the  other 
was  opposite,  holding  a  timer's  watch. 
On  the  platform  adjoining  the  judges' 
stand  was  a  bevy  of  distinguished  stran 
gers — a  Governor  or  two,  a  rotund  justice 
of  the  Court  of  Appeals,  a  few  millionaires, 
and  an  eminent  Englishman  of  letters, 
who  was  travelling  and  lecturing  in  Amer 
ica,  as  well  as  collecting  notes  which  he 
did  not  expect  to  publish  until  he  got 
safely  back  on  the  other  side  of  the  ocean. 

The  sprinkling-cart  was  hauled  from  the 
track  by  two  sturdy  draught  horses,  stol- 


HOW   THE   DERBY   WAS   WON        IOI 

idly  oblivious  of  the  fact  that  they  were 
literally  drawers  of  water  for  their  more 
aristocratic  fellows  in  the  paddock  ;  the 
gate  from  the  paddock  was  then  opened, 
and  the  first  of  the  Derby  contestants 
minced  daintily  through  it  to  the  course, 
and  was  received  with  a  round  of  hand- 
clapping.  It  was  Petrel,  a  colt  which 
would  have  been  highly  thought  of  if 
Huguenot  had  not  been  in  the  race  ;  and 
as  he  paraded  before  the  grand-stand  and 
then  dashed  off  to  the  half-mile  post,  at 
which  the  start  was  to  be  made,  he  was  a 
striking  picture  of  equine  beauty.  Follow 
ing  him  from  the  paddock  came  Timarch, 
a  well -formed,  well-bred  black  giant, 
who  looked,  however,  a  little  too  fleshy 
for  such  a  race  as  the  Derby.  Seven  of 
the  nine  starters  thus  appeared,  and  each 
was  awarded  some  sign  of  applause.  As 
the  eighth  leaped  lithely  to  the  track  with 
elastic  step  and  free  stride  a  cheer  broke 
from  thousands,  which  was  repeated  as 


STORIES    OF   THE   SOUTH 


the  intelligent  creature  turned  his  head 
curiously  toward  his  admirers,  and  as  his 
jockey,  grinning  with  gratification,  lifted 
his  cap  in  acknowledgment  of  the  greet 
ing.  It  was  Huguenot,  of  course  ;  no 
other  horse  on  the  grounds  would  have 
met  such  an  ovation  ;  and  as  he  came 
forth  the  orange  and  blue  of  the  Pallam 
colors,  plaited  about  his  mane  and  deck 
ing  his  rider,  were  unnecessary  for  his 
identification  by  the  public.  With  his 
slender  barrel,  his  deep  chest,  his  power 
ful  quarters,  his  hard  muscles,  his  smooth 
legs,  his  small,  symmetrical  head,  his 
gentle,  fearless  eyes,  his  strong,  flexile 
action,  his  lustrous  coat,  and  his  rich 
blood-bay  color,  relieved  by  a  dash  of 
white  on  forehead  and  pastern,  he  was  as 
perfect  a  specimen  of  patrician  horseflesh 
as  ever  sprang  from  that  remarkable  sire 
of  handsome  and  great  racers,  the  dead 
Virgil.  Shaking  his  head  from  side  to 
side  as  if  for  very  joy  in  the  ecstasy  of  mo- 


HOW   THE    DERBY    WAS    WON         103 

tion,  he  was  followed  by  a  parting  cheer 
as  he  cantered  off  to  the  starting-post ; 
and  Gid  Bronxon,  who  was  standing  near 
the  railing  that  separated  the  crowd  from 
the  track,  saw  Casey  Pallam,  a  few  feet 
away,  smile  radiantly  as  he  lifted  his  hat 
to  Jean  Heath,  who  was  beaming  on  him 
from  the  grand-stand. 

The  next  moment  Uncle  Lije  at  his  bit 
and  young  Whitlock  on  his  back  suc 
ceeded  in  getting  Yaboo  from  the  pad 
dock  to  the  course.  As  the  uncomely  colt 
plunged  right  and  left,  stubbornly  refus 
ing  to  obey  either  the  cajoleries  or  the 
chastisement  of  his  rider,  laughter  echoed 
from  stand  and  field,  and  rose  again  as  a 
big  voice  exclaimed,  "  Hitch  him  to  the 
water-cart !  "  Gid  Bronxon  flushed  as  he 
saw  Casey  Pallam  join  in  the  laughter 
and  cast  an  amused  glance  in  the  direc 
tion  of  Jean  Heath.  But  he  did  not  look 
at  Jean  Heath  again  himself. 

Yaboo — and  coming  just  after  Huguenot > 


e%Jr^C 


HOW   THE   DERBY   WAS   WON         105 

at  that— was  a  rather  laughable  object, 
with  his  long,  gangling  body  made  still 
more  grotesque  by  his  contortions;  his 
big,  aquiline-nosed  head  ;  and  his  ashy 
color,  of  that  particular  shade  of  light 
chestnut  which  belonging  to  a  plough- 
horse,  would  have  been  called  "  clay- 
bank"—  a  shade  which  cannot  be  made 
to  take  on  a  gloss,  however  great  the  care 
of  the  groom,  and  which  appeared  all 
the  more  commonplace  under  the  silk  of 
Gid's  colors  of  crimson  and  creamy  white. 
After  much  persuasion  and  lashing 
Yaboo  at  last  switched  his  tail  in  the  air 
impatiently  and  rushed  off  rapidly  toward 
the  other  horses,  which  were  waiting  for 
him  at  the  half-mile  post.  Arriving  there, 
he  refused  to  stop,  but  ran  on  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  farther  before  Whitlock  could 
check  him;  and  ten  minutes  more  were 
consumed  in  bringing  him  back  to  the 
starting-post.  A  good  half-hour  was  then 
wasted  in  attempting  to  get  him  off  with 


106  STORIES    OF    THE   SOUTH 

the  other  horses,  but  when  they  were 
moving  forward  in  line  Yaboo  was  other 
wise  engaged,  in  trying  to  dismount  his 
rider,  in  kicking  out  lustily  at  the 
starter's  assistant,  in  waltzing,  bucking, 
rearing,  and  other  favorite  divertise- 
ments  of  his,  or  in  suddenly  turning  and 
scudding  away  in  the  opposite  direction 
to  that  in  which  the  race  was  to  be  run. 

The  spectators  were  at  first  amused  at 
these  antics  of  Yahoo's,  but  their  patience, 
as  well  as  that  of  the  starter,  was  fast  be 
coming  exhausted,  and  it  looked  as  if  it 
would  be  necessary  to  leave  the  crimson 
and  white  behind  and  run  the  race  with 
out  Yaboo 's  assistance,  when  Gid  smiled 
as  he  saw  Uncle  Lije  go  up  to  the  judges 
and  engage  those  officials  in  earnest  con 
versation,  emphasizing  it  with  many  obei 
sances  and  gestures.  The  old  trainer  was 
well  known  by  the  officers  of  the  Associa 
tion,  and  they  probably  had  dealings  with 
no  one  for  whom  they  had  more  respect. 


HOW   THE   DERBY    WAS   WON         107 

He  was  evidently  well  pleased  with  his 
call,  for  when  he  left  the  judge's  stand  he 
was  wreathed  in  smiles.  Before  Gid  could 
reach  him  he  had  disappeared  through 
the  crowd,  but  the  next  minute  a  messen 
ger  from  the  judges  was  galloping  across 
the  field  to  inform  the  starter  that  another 
jockey  would  be  allowed  to  ride  Yaboo, 
and  a  few  moments  later  Gid  caught  sight 
of  Uncle  Lije  driving  a  buggy  furiously 
toward  the  half-mile  post,  with  a  boyish 
figure  in  crimson  and  white  at  his  side. 
He  wondered  idly  what  jockey  Uncle  Lije 
had  picked  up  now,  but  was  satisfied  that 
it  was  of  no  importance  who  rode  Yaboo, 
as  nothing  could  be  expected  from  the 
colt  in  his  present  humor. 

Through  his  glasses  he  saw  Uncle  Lije 
and  his  companion  spring  from  the  buggy 
and  go  upon  the  track  ;  saw  Whitlock  dis 
mount  with  alacrity,  and  the  new  jockey 
approach  Yaboo  in  front  and  stand  for  an 
instant  patting  him  on  the  nose  ;  saw  him 


108  STORIES    OF    THE    SOUTH 

vault  from  Uncle  Lije's  hand  into  the 
saddle,  and  then  bend  over  the  colt  and 
stroke  his  neck  for  a  few  seconds  ;  saw 
him  lift  himself  in  his  seat  and  gently  shake 
the  reins,  and  saw  Yaboo  walk  slowly  tow 
ard  the  other  horses ;  saw  him  come 
abreast  of  them,  then  saw,  like  a  flash  of 
refracted  light,  a  many-colored  platoon 
plunge  forward.  The  next  instant  the  red 
flag  had  cut  the  air  to  the  earth,  there  was 
a  resonant  shout  from  the  grand-stand, 
and  the  Derby  had  begun. 

For  nearly  a  hundred  yards  the  nine 
horses  ran  shoulder  to  shoulder  in  a  beau 
tiful  line  deployed  straight  across  the 
track.  Then  the  manoeuvring  for  position 
commenced.  Reins  were  tightened  and 
others  were  slackened,  and  the  brilliant 
hues  of  the  jockeys  wove  in  and  out  with 
shifting  rapidity  as  some  pushed  to  the 
front  and  others  restrained  their  impa 
tience.  At  the  first  quarter  they  were  all 
close  together,  but  divided  into  two  pha- 


HOW   THE    DERBY   WAS   WON         109 

lanxes,  in  the  last  of  which  was  Huguenot, 
while  at  his  flank  was  the  big  nose  of  Ya- 
boo.  At  the  start  Huguenot  >  with  a  bound 
like  a  panther's,  had  sprung  to  the  front, 
but  his  rider  had  promptly  taken  him  in 
hand,  and  was  now  leaning  far  back  in  his 
saddle  in  his  effort  to  keep  the  spirited 
animal  from  making  his  race  too  soon. 
The  crimson  and  white  of  Yaboo  had  not 
been  at  all  conspicuous  in  that  kaleido 
scopic  change  of  colors  except  for  the 
persistency  with  which  they  remained  just 
in  the  rear  of  the  Pallam  orange  and  blue. 
As  the  horses  swung  into  the  stretch  for 
the  first  time  the  trailing  division  closed 
on  that  in  front,  and  they  rounded  the  turn 
all  bunched.  But  only  for  two  or  three 
seconds  did  they  run  in  this  order,  for  as 
the  long  stretch  was  fairly  entered  Petrel 
burst  from  the  ruck  and  shot  to  the  van, 
increasing  his  speed  at  every  stride  until 
by  the  time  he  had  covered  fifty  yards  he 
was  fully  three  lengths  ahead  of  all  the 


110  STORIES    OF    THE    SOUTH 

others.  Then  another  rein  was  loosened, 
and  the  big  black  form  of  Timarch  loomed 
out  in  hot  pursuit  of  the  flying  Petrel,  fol 
lowed  by  a  general  quickening  of  the  pace 
by  the  others.  Down  the  stretch  they 
came,  their  shining  coats  and  burnished 
trappings  glinting  against  the  sun,  and  the 
dust  rising  luminously  in  their  wake.  As 
they  neared  the  stand  Petrel  was  still 
leading,  but  Timarch  was  following  with 
a  rush  that  was  fast  lessening  the  dis 
tance  between  them.  Behind  Timarch,  two 
lengths  away,  were  the  others  in  a  pack, 
from  which  the  shapely  head  of  Hiiguenot 
showed  slightly  in  advance  of  the  remain 
ing  six.  That  head  was  sawing  from  side 
to  side  desperately  as  the  colt  fought 
against  the  unyielding  bit  that  kept  him 
from  spurning  his  company  and  leaping 
disdainfully  to  the  lead.  Meanwhile,  at 
his  saddle-girth,  unmindful  of  his  disdain, 
and  seemingly  of  everything  else,,  Yaboo 
lounged  sleepily  along. 


HOW   THE    DERBY   WAS   WON         III 

As  the  end  of  the  stand  was  reached  7V- 
march  worked  up  to  Petrel,  and  the  two 
raced  down  to  the  "wire,"  cheered  on 
by  the  applause  of  the  spectators.  They 
ended  the  first  half  mile  of  the  race  head 
and  head,  passing  lapped  together  under 
the  wire,  and  beginning  in  earnest  the 
mile  which  was  yet  to  be  traversed.  As 
they  dashed  by  the  judges  the  other  horses 
were  four  lengths  behind  them  ;  but  just 
at  this  point  Huguenot's  jockey  relaxed  his 
reins  a  little  and  with  a  wonderful  bound 
that  shook  the  grand-stand  with  a  shout 
of  joy,  the  orange  and  blue  began  to  cut 
clown  the  gap  which  Petrel  and  Timarch 
had  made.  In  a  second  Huguenot  was 
clear  of  the  bunch,  and  leaving  it  farther 
in  his  rear  at  every  one  of  those  mighty, 
graceful  bounds.  But  in  another  second 
Yaboos  rider  had  bent  forward  slightly, 
and  Yaboo  himself,  appearing  to  wake 
from  his  dreams,  switched  his  tail  and 
hurried  off  in  pursuit  of  his  late  com- 


112  STORIES   OF   THE    SOUTH 

panion.  "  Just  look  at  old  Water-cart !  " 
yelled  the  big  voice  again,  and  before  the 
laughter  had  subsided  Yaboos  nose  was 
back  at  its  old  place  at  Hiiguenot's  saddle- 
girth  :  in  another  moment  it  was  at  his 
throat-latch  ;  and  in  two  more  strides  the 
crimson  and  white  and  the  orange  and 
blue  were  streaming  through  the  sunlight 
blended  together.  The  excitement  now 
began  to  grow  intense  as  the  next  quarter 
was  finished  with  Hiiguenot  and  Yaboo  side 
by  side,  only  a  length  behind  /Wr^/and  77- 
march,  still  lapped,  while  the  others  were 
struggling  some  lengths  away.  It  was  as 
if  for  the  time  there  were  two  races,  one 
between  Petrel2a\&  Timarch  and  the  other 
between  Huguenot  and  Yaboo,  with  noth 
ing  to  indicate  which  would  be  the  winner 
of  either.  It  was  evident,  however,  that 
Petrel  and  Timarch  were  running  at  the 
top  of  their  speed,  while  the  other  two 
each  had  something  yet  in  reserve. 

Gid  Bronxon  felt  the  hand  that  held  his 


HOW   THE    DERBY   WAS   WON        113 

glasses  become  a  trifle  unsteady  as  he 
watched  the  good  work  which  Yaboo  was 
doing,  and  yielding  to  a  sudden  impulse 
he  glanced  up  in  the  grand-stand,  but  he 
could  not  see  either  Jean  Heath  or  her 
aunt.  Looking  over  into  the  field,  he 
broke  into  a  nervous  laugh  as  he  caught 
sight  of  Uncle  Lije  hilariously  tossing  his 
hat  high  in  the  air. 

But  his  laugh  instantly  died  away  when 
he  levelled  his  glasses  on  the  horses  again. 
They  were  approaching  the  turn  into  the 
backstretch,  in  the  same  order  as  last 
noted,  when  Yaboo  abruptly  left  Huguenot 
and  bolted  obliquely  to  the  opposite  side 
of  the  track,  an  action  which  sent  a  mur 
murous  commotion  through  the  throngs 
which  saw  it,  and  left  no  doubt  in  any 
one's  mind  that  all  chances  for  the  crimson 
and  white  were  over.  For  Huguenot  not 
only  went  on  alone  in  pursuit  of  Petrel 
and  Timarch,  but  by  the  time  Yaboo  had 
been  pulled  back  into  the  course  every 


114  STORIES   OF    THE   SOUTH 

horse  in  the  race  had  passed  that  obsti 
nate  brute. 

Along  the  backstretch  it  soon  began 
to  look  as  if  the  result  would  be  between 
/W/v/and  Huguenot,  for  Timarch  faltered, 
and  then  dropped  back  to  Huguenot,  the 
latter  going  by  the  tired  black  colt  quick 
ly,  and  now  rapidly  overtaking  the  gallant 
Petrel.  In  the  next  twenty  yards  he  col 
lars  Petrel,  and  a  cry  goes  up  from  the 
grand-stand.  There  seems  nothing  in  the 
race  now  except  the  two,  and  in  another 
twenty  yards  the  cry  swells  into  an  exult 
ant  roar  as  Huguenot's  colors  flash  to  the 
lead.  Petrel's  jockey  draws  his  whip  and 
plies  it  vigorously,  and  the  brave  colt 
makes  an  heroic  effort  to  recover  his  lost 
ground.  But  it  is  useless.  Petrels  race 
is  run,  and  Huguenot  enters  on  the  last 
half-mile  two  good  lengths  in  front,  which 
It  is  easy  to  see  he  can  make  a  dozen  if 
necessary.  "It's  all  over!"  is  the  ex 
clamation  which  rises  above  the  pande- 


HOW   THE    DERBY   WAS   WON         115 


monium  in  the  field  and  the  grand-stand. 
"  It's  Huguenot's  race  !  "  "  There's  noth 
ing  in  it  that  can  make  him  run  !  "  "  He 
wins  in  a  walk  ! 

Huguenot  swings  into  the  homestretch 
retaining  his  advantage  without  an  effort^ 
and  running  with  a  free  action  that  is  as 
beautiful  as  it  is  powerful,  his  rider  sitting 
motionless  in  supreme  confidence  that  all 
that  is  required  of  him  now  is  to  hold  the 
horse  to  his  course. 

The  great  crowd  is  laughing  good-hu- 
moredly  at  Huguenot's  easily  won  Derby. 
Many  in  it  are  shakingeach  other's  hands, 
and  Gid  Bronxon  observes  that  those  near 
Casey  Pallam  are  boisterously  congratu 
lating  him. 

Suddenly  there  is  a  new  tumult. 
"Look!"  "Look!"  "  Who  is  that  ?" 
"  See  how  he  comes  !  "  For  out  from  the 
rear  tears  a  tornado  of  dust,  swirling  by 
horse  after  horse  with  a  swiftness  that  is 
electric  in  its  effect  on  those  who  see  it. 


Il6  STORIES   OF   THE   SOUTH 

"Who  is  it?"  "Who  is  it?"  "What 
are  those  colors  ?  "  And  a  big  voice  bel 
lows,  "  By  the  great  Geehosaphat  if  it  ain't 
old  Water-cart !  "  "  Yaboo  !  "  "  Yaboo  f" 
"  Yaboo  f"  proclaim  a  thousand  straining 
tongues,  and  the  reverberant  shouts  star 
tle  from  his  fancied  security  Huguenot's 
jockey,  who,  turning  in  his  seat,  looks  over 
his  shoulder  and  sees  swooping  down  on 
him  that  pillar  of  dust,  out  from  which, 
even  as  he  looks,  there  leaps  like  a  gleam 
of  lightning  a  sheen  of  crimson  and  white 
— and  Yaboo  is  once  more  alongside  of 
Huguenot.  The  rider  in  orange  and  blue 
is  no  longer  motionless  in  his  saddle  ;  his 
arms  beat  the  air  rapidly  as  he  shakes  the 
reins,  and  his  heels  strike  against  Hugue 
not's  sides  incessantly,  as,  for  the  first 
time,  he  begins  to  urge  the  son  of  Virgil 
to  do  his  best.  But  Yaboo  is  not  to  be 
gotten  rid  of  easily.  It  is  as  if  he  were 
borne  on  by  some  preternatural  force,  on 
which  he  has  been  hurled  forward  with  a 


HOW   THE   DERBY  WAS   WON         IIJ 

momentum  that  is  resistless.  Do  what  he 
can,  Huguenot  cannot  shake  that  demon 
from  his  side,  and  an  eighth  of  a  mile  from 
the  end  the  two  are  neck  and  neck,  and 
each  is  running  as  he  has  never  run  be 
fore.  On  they  plunge,  stride  for  stride, 
the  dust  rising  and  hanging  over  the  other 
horses  a  few  yards  behind  them,  whose 
riders  are  now  making  a  last  desperate 
attempt  to  force  them  to  the  front.  And 
as  they  respond  with  their  final  rally,  and 
dash  furiously  forward  in  a  close  cluster 
through  that  lowering  dust,  their  hoof- 
beats  echo  like  the  rhythmically  rolling 
rumble  of  low  thunder,  the  quick  lashes 
cleave  the  dust-cloud  against  the  light  like 
wind-writhen  rain,  and  it  is,  indeed,  as  if 
a  storm  were  sweeping  down  the  course, 
from  which  those  two  terror-stricken 
beasts  just  in  front  of  it  are  fleeing  for 
their  lives.  On  they  fly,  from  one  storm 
into  another — from  the  storm  behind  them 
into  the  storm  that  bursts  before  them 


IlS  STORIES    OF    THE    SOUTH 


from  ten  thousand  throats.  They  are  so 
near  now  that  the  play  of  their  tense 
muscles  can  be  seen  without  the  aid  of 
glasses  ;  but  near  as  they  are,  those  myriad 
eyes  cannot  see  which,  if  either,  leads  the 
other.  They  are  so  near  that  the  delicate 
nostrils  of  Huguenot,  dilated  to  their  ut 
most  in  this  mighty  struggle,  glow  like 
opalescent  fire.  They  are  so  near  that, 
straining,  as  if  almost  they  would  leave 
their  sockets,  the  whites  of  Yahoo1  s  eyes 
are  plainly  visible.  Huguenot,  with  every 
faculty  of  his  beautiful  body  and  dauntless 
spirit  thrown  into  this  supreme  effort,  is 
superb,  and  more  than  worthy  of  every 
one  of  those  deafening  plaudits,  "Hugue 
not!"  '"Huguenot!"  Yaboo  in  motion, 
now  the  incarnation  of  a  terrific  power,  is 
grand,  and  deserves  that  frantic  acclaim, 
"  Yaboo!"  "  Yaboo!"  Pitted  together 
they  are  magnificent,  and  "Huguenot!" 
"  Huguenot !  "  "  Yaboo  f  "  "  Yaboo  !  " 
"  Yaboo  wins  !  "  "  Huguenot  "wins  \  "  rend 


:8S[f-!« 


J20  STORIES    OF    THE    SOUTH 

that  mad  multitude  with  a  warring  chaos 
of  enthusiasm.  On  they  come,  even  yet 
as  though  yoked  together  ;  but  now  as 
they  reach  the  sixteenth  pole,  is  it — can  it 
be  that  the  crimson  has  forged  just  a 
hand's-breadth  in  front  of  the  orange  ? 
"Huguenot  is  beaten!"  rises  from  the 
people  like  a  groan  of  defeat  and  a  yell  of 
victory.  His  jockey  immediately  raises 
his  whip,  and  Huguenot  for  the  first  time 
in  his  life  feels  the  sting  of  raw-hide. 
"  Huguenot  is  whipping  !  "  is  heard  above 
that  wild  uproar,  if  there  is  anyone  to 
hear.  The  sensitive  creature  springs 
gamely  from  the  lash,  and  with  an  hercu 
lean  bound  wrests  the  lead  from  his  com 
petitor.  "  Hiiguenot  has  him!"  "Hu 
guenot  wins  ! ."  and  the  multitude  sways 
and  storms  over  the  triumph  of  the  favor 
ite — for  triumph  it  must  be  as  the  goal  is 
now  not  fifteen  yards  away.  Yaboo's  jockey 
bends  lower  over  his  horse's  withers  ; 
there  is  a  tremulous  motion  of  his  hands, 


HOW   THE   DERBY  WAS   WON        121 

a  convulsive  pressure  of  his  knees,  a  quick 
lifting  as  if  of  the  horse  by  the  rider,  and 
while  the  cruel  blows  yet  fall  on  Hugue 
not's  flank,  Yaboo,  amid  an  outburst  that 
must  startle  the  far  Indiana  hills,  hurtles 
past  the  judges,  winner,  by  a  "head,"  of 
the  Kentucky  Derby. 

As  the  jockeys  rode  back  to  the  judges' 
stand  to  dismount  after  the  finish  of  the 
race,  Gid  Bronxon  suddenly  sprang 
through  the  gate  to  the  track,  and  hurry 
ing  to  Yaboo,  lifted  his  drooping  rider 
from  the  saddle.  His  own  face  was  as 
pale  as  the  boy's,  and  as  he  held  the  ex 
hausted  figure  for  an  instant  in  his  arms 
he  saw  tears  trembling  on  the  little 
fellow's  lashes.  "Put  me  down,  quick, 
quick!"  came  from  the  quivering  lips, 
and  like  one  in  a  dream  Gid  placed  him 
on  the  ground.  The  crimson  and  white 
jacket  disappeared  immediately  into  the 
latticed  weighing-room.  In  a  moment 
Gid  saw  it  come  forth  and  slip  away 


HOW    THE    DERBY    WAS    WON         123 


through  the  crowd.  A  minute  later  he 
caught  a  glimpse  of  it  by  Uncle  Lije's 
side,  as  the  old  trainer  drove  away  in  the 
buggy  ;  and  while  the  eyes  of  perhaps  all 
in  that  throng  were  directed  upon  the 
horse  that  had  won  the  Derby,  and  upon 
the  time  of  the  race,  which  had  just  been 
posted,  Gid,  going  to  the  topmost  railing 
of  the  grand-stand,  followed  with  a  dazed 
look  the  buggy  as  it  left  the  grounds, 
turned  into  the  old  road  that  extends  be 
yond  them,  and  stopped  in  front  of  a  little 
cottage  back  among  the  trees.  Then  he 
saw  the  crimson  and  white  jacket  leave 
the  buggy  and  run  up  to  the  door,  into 
the  arms  of  a  lady  who  was  standing  there, 
and  on  whose  head  was  an  aggressively 
old-fashioned  bonnet. 

The  cottage,  he  happened  to  know, 
belonged  to  the  old  woman  who  had 
charge  of  the  women's  dressing-rooms 
beneath  the  grand-stand,  and  glancing 
in  that  direction  as  he  made  his  way  be- 


124  STORIES    OF    THE    SOUTH 


low,  he  saw  her  sitting  faithfully  at  her 
post. 

About  eight  o'clock  that  evening  Gid 
met  Major  Heath  in  the  lobby  of  the  Gait 
House,  and  after  receiving  the  old  gentle 
man's  congratulations  the  two  engaged  in 
a  conversation  which  concluded  in  this 
way : 

"  I'm  afeard  not,  Gid.  Jean  is  in  a  tur- 
rible  tantrum.  Cryin'  all  the  time,  an' 
says  she  never  wants  to  see  nobody 
ag'in." 

"But,  Major,  if  it  is  possible,  I  must 
speak  to  her,  somehow." 

"  Come  along  then,  an'  I'll  see  if  I  c'n 
manage  it." 

VII. 

AMONG  the  "Notes"  which  followed 
a  long  description  of  the  Derby  in  a 
Louisville  paper  next  day  were  these  : 

"  IT  is  reported  that  the  owner  of  Yaboo 


HOW    THE    DERBY   WAS    WON         125 

was  offered  $10,000  for  him  within  half  an 
hour  after  the  race  yesterday." 

"  IT  was  noticed  that  the  jockey  who 
rode  Yaboo  had  neither  whip  nor  spurs. 
It  is  said  that  the  horse  will  not  submit  to 
punishment." 

"  THE  most  important  and  happiest 
man  in  town  last  night  was  old  Uncle  Lije 
Heath,  who  trained  the  Derby  winner. 
He  says  he  knew  all  the  time  that  Yaboo 
was  no  half-breed,  and  that  his  Bonnie 
Scotland  blood  was  bound  to  pull  him 
through.  Uncle  Lije  won  two  thousand 
dollars  on  the  result." 

"  IT  is  said  that  young  Smith,  who 
piloted  Yaboo  to  victory,  never  rode  in  a 
race  before.  If  such  is  the  case  the  lad's 
performance  was  nothing  short  of  mar 
vellous.  Smith  is  from  the  country,  and 
was  discovered  by  Uncle  Lije  Heath,  who 
says,  however,  that  the  boy's  parents 


126  STORIES    OF    THE    SOUTH 

would  never  consent  to  his  going  upon 
the  turf.  This  is  unfortunate,  as  there  is 
no  doubt  that  he  would  soon  rank  with 
the  premier  jockeys  of  America.  Uncle 
Lije  explains  that  Smith  would  not  have 
ridden  yesterday  if  the  horse  had  not 
been  a  favorite  of  his,  and  if  the  ridicule 
with  which  the  crowd  greeted  Yaboo  had 
not  made  the  boy  indignant." 

"THE  genial  Major  Heath,  of  Wood- 
ford  County,  was  seen  by  a  reporter  in 
front  of  the  Gait  House  late  last  night,  in 
company  with  Mr.  Bronxon,  the  owner  of 
Yaboo.  The  Major  seemed  as  radiant 
over  the  result  as  Mr.  Bronxon  himself,  as 
the  great  son  of  Glenelg  and  Brunhilde 
was  bred  by  the  Major,  being  the  first 
Derby  winner  he  has  yet  produced.  He 
sold  Yaboo  as  a  two-year-old,  he  says,  for 
$160.  Mr.  Bronxon,  in  response  to  an  in 
quiry  by  the  reporter,  said  he  thought 
that  yesterday's  experience  would  satisfy 


HOW   THE    DERBY    WAS   WON 


127 


him,  and  that  he  would  seek  no  further 
honors  on  the  turf.  Major  Heath  inti 
mated  that  there  was  some  probability  of 
the  formation  of  a  partnership  between 
himself  and  Mr.  Bronxon  for  the  manage 
ment  of  the  former's  stock-farm,  an  inti 
mation  which  Mr.  Bronxon  did  not  deny." 


AUNT  FOUNTAIN'S 
PRISONER 

BY  JOEL  CHANDLER  HARRIS 


IT  is  curious  how  the  smallest  incident, 
the  most  unimportant  circumstance, 
will  recall  old  friends  and  old  asso 
ciations.     An  old  gentleman,  who  is 
noted  far   and    near    for    his    prodigious 
memory  of  dates  and  events,  once  told 
me  that   his  memory,   so  astonishing   to 
his   friends  and  acquaintances,  consisted 
not  so  much  in  remembering  names,  and 
dates,  and  facts,  as  in  associating  each  of 
these  with  some  special  group  of  facts  and 
events  ;  so  that  he  always  had  at  command 
a  series  of  associations  to  which  he  could 
refer  instantly  and  confidently.     This  is 


132  STORIES   OF   THE   SOUTH 

an  explanation  of  the  system  of  employ 
ing  facts,  but  not  of  the  method  by  which 
they  are  accumulated  and  stored  away. 

I  was  reminded  of  this  some  years  ago 
by  a  paragraph  in  one  of  the  county  news 
papers  that  sometimes  come  under  my 
observation.  It  was  a  very  commonplace 
paragraph  ;  indeed,  it  was  in  the  nature  of 
an  advertisement — an  announcement  of 
the  fact  that  orders  for  "  gilt-edged  but 
ter  "  from  the  Jersey  farm  on  the  Tomlinson 
Place  should  be  left  at  the  drug-store  in 
Rockville,  where  the  first  that  came  would 
be  the  first  served.  This  business-like 
notice  was  signed  by  Ferris  Trunion.  The 
name  was  not  only  peculiar,  but  new  to 
me  ;  but  this  was  of  no  importance  at  all. 
The  fact  that  struck  me  was  the  bald  and 
bold  announcement  that  the  Tomlinson 
Place  was  the  site  and  centre  of  trading 
and  other  commercial  transactions  in  but 
ter.  I  can  only  imagine  what  effect  this 
announcement  would  have  had  on  my 


AUNT  FOUNTAIN'S  PRISONER     133 

grandmother,  who  died  years  ago,  and  on 
some  other  old  people  I  used  to  know. 
Certainly  they  would  have  been  horrified  ; 
and  no  wonder,  for  when  they  were  in 
their  prime  the  Tomlinson  Place  was  the 
seat  of  all  that  was  high,  and  mighty,  and 
grand  in  the  social  world  in  the  neighbor 
hood  of  Rockville.  I  remember  that 
everybody  stood  in  awe  of  the  Tomlin- 
sons.  Just  why  this  was  so,  I  never  could 
make  out.  They  were  very  rich ;  the 
Place  embraced  several  thousand  acres  ; 
but  if  the  impressions  made  on  me  when 
a  child  are  worth  anything,  they  were  ex 
tremely  simple  in  their  ways.  Though 
no  doubt  they  could  be  formal  and  con 
ventional  enough  when  occasion  required. 
I  have  no  distinct  recollection  of  Judge 
Addison  Tomlinson,  except  that  he  was 
a  very  tall  old  gentleman,  much  older 
than  his  wife,  who  went  about  the  streets 
of  Rockville  carrying  a  tremendous  gold- 
headed  cane  carved  in  a  curious  manner. 


134  STORIES    OF   THE   SOUTH 


In  those  days  I  knew  more  of  Mrs.  Tom- 
linson  than  I  did  of  the  judge,  mainly  be 
cause  I  heard  a  great  deal  more  about 
her.  Some  of  the  women  called  her  Mrs. 
Judge  Tomlinson  ;  but  my  grandmother 
never  called  her  anything  else  but  Harriet 
Bledsoe,  which  was  her  maiden  name.  It 
was  a  name,  too,  that  seemed  to  suit  her, 
so  that  when  you  once  heard  her  called 
Harriet  Bledsoe  you  never  forgot  it  after 
ward.  I  do  not  know  now,  any  more  than 
I  did  when  a  child,  why  this  particular 
name  should  fit  her  so  exactly  ;  but,  as  I 
have  often  been  told,  a  lack  of  knowledge 
does  not  alter  facts. 

I  think  my  grandmother  used  to  go  to 
church  to  see  what  kind  of  clothes  Harriet 
Bledsoe  wore  ;  for  I  have  often  heard  her 
say,  after  the  sermon  was  over,  that  Har 
riet's  bonnet,  or  Harriet's  dress,  was  per 
fectly  charming.  Certainly  Mrs.  Tomlin 
son  was  always  dressed  in  the  height  of 
fashion,  though  it  was  a  very  simple  fash- 


AUNT  FOUNTAIN'S  PRISONER     135 


ion  when  compared  with  the  flounces  and 
furbelows  of  her  neighbors.  I  remember 
this  distinctly,  that  she  seemed  to  be  per 
fectly  cool  the  hottest  Sunday  in  summer, 
and  comfortably  warm  the  coldest  Sunday 
in  winter ;  and  I  am  convinced  that  this 
impression,  made  on  the  mind  of  a  child, 
must  bear  some  definite  relation  to  Mrs. 
Tomlinson's  good  taste. 

Certainly  my  grandmother  was  never 
tired  of  telling  me  that  Harriet  Bledsoe 
was  blessed  with  exceptionally  good  taste 
and  fine  manners,  and  I  remember  that 
she  told  me  often  how  she  wished  I  was  a 
girl,  so  that  I  might  one  day  be  in  a  posi 
tion  to  take  advantage  of  the  opportunities 
I  had  had  of  profiting  by  Harriet  Bled- 
soe's  example.  I  think  there  was  some 
sort  of  attachment  between  my  grand 
mother  and  Mrs.  Tomlinson,  formed  when 
they  were  at  school  together,  though  my 
grandmother  was  much  the  older  of  the 
two.  But  there  was  no  intimacy.  The 


136  STORIES    OF   THE   SOUTH 

gulf  that  money  sometimes  makes  be 
tween  those  who  have  it  and  those  who 
lack  it  lay  between  them.  Though  I  think 
my  grandmother  was  more  sensitive  about 
crossing  this  gulf  than  Mrs.  Tomlinson. 

I  was  never  in  the  Tomlinson  house  but 
once  when  a  child.  Whether  it  was  be 
cause  it  was  two  or  three  miles  away  from 
Rockville,  or  whether  it  was  because  I 
stood  in  awe  of  my  grandmother's  Harriet 
Bledsoe,  I  do  not  know.  But  I  have  a 
very  vivid  recollection  of  the  only  time  I 
went  there  as  a  boy.  One  of  my  play 
mates,  a  rough-and-tumble  little  fellow, 
was  sent  by  his  mother,  a  poor,  sick 
woman,  to  ask  Mrs.  Tomlinson  for  some 
preserves.  I  think  this  woman  and  her 
little  boy  were:  in  some  way  related  to  the 
Tomlinsons.  The  richest  and  most  pow 
erful  people,  I  have  heard  it  said,  are  not 
so  rich  and  powerful  but  they  are  pes 
tered  by  poor  kin,  and  the  Tomlinsons 
were  no  exception  to  the  rule. 


AUNT   FOUNTAIN  S    PRISONER       137 


I  went  with  this  little  boy  I  spoke  of, 
and  I  was  afraid  afterward  that  I  was  in 
some  way  responsible  for  his  boldness.  He 
walked  right  into  the  presence  of  Mrs.  Tom- 
linson,  and,  without  waiting  to  return  the 
ladySs  salutation,  he  said,  in  a  loud  voice  : 

"  Aunt  Harriet,  ma  says  send  her  some 
of  your  nicest  preserves." 

"  Aunt  Harriet,  indeed  !  "  she  exclaim 
ed,  and  then  she  gave  him  a  look  that  was 
cold  enough  to  freeze  him,  and  hard 
enough  to  send  him  through  the  floor. 

I  think  she  relented  a  little,  for  she 
went  to  one  of  the  windows,  bigger  than 
any  door  you  see  nowadays,  and  looked 
out  over  the  blooming  orchard  ;  and  then 
after  a  while  she  came  back  to  us,  and 
was  very  gracious.  She  patted  me  on 
thethead,  and  I  must  have  shrunk  from 
her  touch,  for  she  laughed  and  said  she 
never  bit  nice  little  boys.  Then  she 
asked  me  my  name  ;  and  when  I  told 
her,  she  said  my  grandmother  was  the 


138  STORIES   OF   THE   SOUTH 


dearest  woman  in  the  world.  Moreover, 
she  told  my  companion  that  it  would  spoil 
preserves  to  carry  them  about  in  a  tin 
bucket,  and  then  she  fetched  a  big  basket 
and  had  it  filled  with  preserves,  and  jelly, 
and  cake.  There  were  some  ginger-pre 
serves  among  the  rest,  and  I  remember 
that  I  appreciated  them  very  highly  ;  the 
more  so,  since  my  companion  had  a  the 
ory  of  his  own  that  ginger-preserves  and 
fruit-cake  were  not  good  for  sick  people. 

I  remember,  too,  that  Mrs.  Tomlinson 
had  a  little  daughter  about  my  own  age. 
She  had  long  yellow  hair  and  very  black 
eyes.  She  rode  around  in  the  Tomlinson 
carriage  a  great  deal,  and  everybody  said 
she  was  remarkably  pretty,  with  a  style 
and  a  spirit  all  her  own.  The  negroes 
used  to  say  that  she  was  as  affectionate  as 
she  was  wilfjul,  which  was  saying  a  good 
deal.  It  was  characteristic  of  Harriet 
Bledsoe,  my  grandmother  said,  that  her 
little  girl  should  be  named  Lady. 


AUNT  FOUNTAIN'S  PRISONER     139 

I  heard  a  great  many  of  the  facts  I  have 
stated  from  old  Aunt  Fountain,  one  of  the 
Tomlinson  negroes,  who,  for  some  reason 
or  another,  was  permitted  to  sell  ginger- 
cakes  and  persimmon  -  beer  under  the 
wide-spreading  China  trees  in  Rockville 
on  public  days  and  during  court-week. 
There  was  a  theory  among  certain  envi 
ous  people  in  Rockville — there  are  envi 
ous  people  everywhere — that  the  Tomlin- 
sons,  notwithstanding  the  extent  of  their 
landed  estate  and  the  number  of  their 
negroes,  were  sometimes  short  of  ready 
cash,  and  it  was  hinted  that  they  pocketed 
the  proceeds  of  Aunt  Fountain's  persim 
mon-beer  and  ginger-cakes.  Undoubt 
edly  such  stories  as  these  were  the  out 
come  of  pure  envy.  When  my  grand 
mother  heard  such  gossip  as  this,  she 
sighed  and  said  that  people  who  would 
talk  about  Harriet  Bledsoe  in  that  way 
would  talk  about  anybody  under  the  sun. 
My  own  opinion  is  that  Aunt  Fountain 


140  STORIES   OF   THE    SOUTH 

got  the  money  and  kept  it ;  otherwise  she 
would  not  have  been  so  fond  of  her  mas 
ter  and  mistress,  nor  so  proud  of  the 
family  and  its  position.  I  spent  many  an 
hour  near  Aunt  Fountain's  cake  and  beer- 
stand,  for  I  liked  to  hear  her  talk.  Be 
sides,  she  had  a  very  funny  name,  and  I 
thought  there  was  always  a  probability 
that  she  would  explain  how  she  got  it. 
But  she  never  did. 

I  had  forgotten  all  about  the  Tomlin- 
sons  until  the  advertisement  I  have  men 
tioned  was  accidentally  brought  to  my 
notice,  whereupon  memory  suddenly  be 
came  wonderfully  active.  I  am  keenly 
alive  to  the  happier  results  of  the  war,  and 
I  hope  I  appreciate  at  their  full  value  the 
emancipation  of  both  whites  and  blacks 
from  the  deadly  effects  of  negro  slavery, 
and  the  wonderful  development  of  our 
material  resources  that  the  war  has  ren 
dered  possible  ;  but  I  must  confess  it  was 
with  a  feeling  of  regret  I  learned  that  the 


AUNT  FOUNTAIN'S  PRISONER     141 


Tomlinson  Place  had  been  turned  into  a 
dairy-farm.  Moreover,  the  name  of  Fer 
ris  Trunion  had  a  foreign  and  an  unfamil 
iar  sound.  His  bluntly  worded  advertise 
ment  appeared  to  come  from  the  mind  of 
a  man  who  would  not  hesitate  to  sweep 
away  both  romance  and  tradition  if  they 
happened  to  stand  in  the  way  of  a  profit 
able  bargain. 

I  was  therefore  much  gratified,  some 
time  after  reading  Trunion's  advertise 
ment,  to  receive  a  note  from  a  friend  who 
deals  in  real-estate,  telling  me  that  some 
land  near  the  Tomlinson  Place  had  been 
placed  in  his  hands  for  sale,  and  asking  me 
to  go  to  Rockville  to  see  if  the  land  and 
the  situation  were  all  they  were  described 
to  be.  I  lost  no  time  in  undertaking  this 
part  of  the  business,  for  I  was  anxious  to 
see  how  the  old  place  looked  in  the  hands 
of  strangers,  and  unsympathetic  stran 
gers  at  that. 

It  is  not  far  from  Atlanta  to  Rockville— 


142 


STORIES   OF    THE   SOUTH 


a  day  and  a  night — and  the  journey  is  not 
fatiguing  ;  so  that  a  few  hours  after  re 
ceiving  my  friend's  request  I  was  sitting 
in  the  veranda  of  the  Rockville  Hotel, 
observing,  with  some  degree  of  wonder, 


the  vast  changes  that  had  taken  place — 
the  most  of  them  for  the  better.  There 
were  new  faces  and  new  enterprises  all 
around  me,  and  there  was  a  bustle  about 
the  town  that  must  have  caused  queer 
sensations  in  the  minds  of  the  few  old  citi 
zens  who  still  gathered  at  the  post-office 


AUNT  FOUNTAIN'S  PRISONER     143 

for   the   purpose  of  carrying  on   ancient 
political  controversies  with  each  other. 

Among  the  few  familiar  figures  that  at 
tracted  my  attention  was  that  of  Aunt 
Fountain.  The  old  China  tree  in  the 
shade  of  which  she  used  to  sit  had  been 
blasted  by  lightning  or  fire  ;  but  she  still 
had  her  stand  there,  and  she  was  keeping 
the  flies  and  dust  away  with  the  same  old 
turkey-tail  fan.  I  could  see  no  change. 
If  her  hair  was  grayer,  it  was  covered  and 
concealed  from  view  by  the  snow-white 
handkerchief  tied  around  her  head.  From 
my  place  I  could  hear  her  humming  a 
time— the  tune  I  had  heard  her  sing  in 
precisely  the  same  way  years  ago.  I 
heard  her  scolding  a  little  boy.  The  gest 
ure,  the  voice;  the  words  were  the  same 
she  had  employed  in  trying  to  convince 
me  that  my  room  was  much  better  than 
my  company,  especially  in  the  neighbor 
hood  of  her  cake-stand.  To  see  her  and 
hear  her  thus  gave  me  a  peculiar  feel- 


144  STORIES    OF   THE   SOUTH 

ing  of  homesickness.  I  approached  and 
saluted  her.  She  bowed  with  old-fash 
ioned  politeness,  but  without  looking 
up. 

"  De  biggest  uns,  dee  er  ten  cent,"  she 
said,  pointing  to  her  cakes;  "en  de  lit 
tlest,  dee  er  ft"  cent.  I  make  um  all  my- 
se'f,  suh.  En  de  beer  in  dat  jug — dat 
beer  got  body,  suh." 

"I  have  eaten  many  a  one  of  your 
cakes,  Aunt  Fountain,"  said  I,  "  and 
drank  many  a  glass  of  your  beer ;  but  you 
have  forgotten  me." 

*'  My  eye  weak,  suh,  but  dee  ain'  weak 
miff  fer  dat."  She  shaded  her  eyes  with 
her  fan,  and  looked  at  me.  Then  she 
rose  briskly  from  her  chair.  "  De  Lord 
he'p  my  soul !  "  she  exclaimed,  enthusias 
tically.  "  W'y,  I  know  you  w'en  you  lit 
tle  boy.  Wat  make  I  ain'  know  you  w'en 
you  big  man  ?  My  eye  weak,  suh,  but 
dee  ain'  weak  nuff  fer  dat.  Well,  suh, 
you  mus'  eat  some  my  ginger-cake.  De 


AUNT    FOUNTAIN  S    PRISONER       145 


Lord   know  you   has  make  way  wid  um 
w'en  you  wuz  little  boy." 

The  invitation  was  accepted,  but  some 
how  the  ginger-cakes  had  lost  their  old- 
time  relish  ;  in  me  the  taste  and  spirit  of 
youth  were  lacking. 

We  talked  of  old  times  and  old  friends, 
and  I  told  Aunt  Fountain  that  I  had  come 
to  Rockville  for  the  purpose  of  visiting 
in  the  neighborhood  of  the  Tomlinson 
Place. 

"  Den  I  gwine  wid  you,  suh,"  she  cried, 
shaking  her  head  vigorously.  "  I  gwine 
wid  you."  And  go  she  did. 

"  I  bin  layin'  off  ter  go  see  my  young 
mistiss  dis  long  time,"  said  Aunt  Foun 
tain,  the  next  day,  after  we  had  started. 
"  I  glad  I  gwine  deer  in  style.  De  nig 
gers  won'  know  me  skacely,  ridin'  in  de 
buggy  dis  away." 

"  Your  young  mistress  ?  "  I  inquired. 
"  Yes,  suh.     You  know  Miss  Lady  w'en 
she  little  gal.     She  grown  'oman  now." 


146  STORIES    OF    THE    SOUTH 


"Well,  who  is  this  Trunion  I  have 
heard  of  ?  " 

"  He  monst'ous  nice  w'ite  man,  suh. 
He  married  my  young  mistiss.  He  mon 
st'ous  nice  w'ite  man." 

"  But  who  is  he  ?  Where  did  he  come 
from  ?  "  Aunt  Fountain  chuckled  convul 
sively  as  I  asked  these  questions. 

"  We-all  des  pick  'im  up,  suh.  Yes, 
suh  ;  we-all  des  pick  'im  up.  Ain'  you 
year  talk  'bout  dat,  suh  ?  I  dunner  whar 
you  bin  at  ef  you  ain'  never  is  year  talk 
'bout  dat.  He  de  fus'  w'ite  man  w'at  I  ever 
pick  up,  suh.  Yes,  suh  ;  de  ve'y  fus'  one." 

"  I  don't  understand  you,"  said  I  ;  "  tell 
me  about  it." 

At  this  Aunt  Fountain  laughed  long 
and  loudly.  She  evidently  enjoyed  my 
ignorance  keenly. 

"  De  Lord  knows  I  oughtn'  be  laughin' 
like  dis.  I  ain't  laugh  so  hearty  sence  I 
wuz  little  gal  mos',  en  dat  wuz  de  time 
w'en  Marse  Rowan  Tomlinson  come  'long 


AUNT  FOUNTAIN'S  PRISONER     147 

en  ax  me  my  name.  I  tell  'im,  I  did,  '  I'm 
name  Flew  Ellen,  suh. '  Marse  Rowan 
he  deaf  ez  any  dead  boss.  He  'low, 
1  Hey?  '  I  say,  '  I'm  name  Flew  Ellen, 
suh. '  Marse  Rowan  say,  '  Fountain  ! 
Huh  !  he  quare  name.'  I  holler  en  laugh, 
en  w'en  de  folks  ax  me  w'at  I  hollerin' 
'bout,  I  tell  um  dat  Marse  Rowan  say  I'm 
name  Fountain.  Well,  suh,  fum  dat  day 
down  ter  dis,  stedder  Flew  Ellen,  I'm  bin 
name  Fountain.  I  laugh  hearty  den  en 
my  name  got  change,  en  I  feard  ef  I  laugh 
now  .de  hoss'll  run  away  en  turn  de  buggy 
upperside  down  right  spang  on  top  er  me. " 

"  But  about  this  Mr.  Trunion  ?  "  said  I. 

"  Name  er  de  Lord  !  "  exclaimed  Aunt 
Fountain,  "  ain'  you  never  is  bin  year 
'bout  dat  ?  You  bin  mighty  fur  ways,  suh, 
kaze  we  all  bin  knowin'  'bout  it  fum  de 
jump." 

"  No  doubt.     Now  tell  me  about  it." 

Aunt  Fountain  shook  her  head  and  her 
face  assumed  a  serious  expression. 


148  STORIES   OF   THE   SOUTH 

"  I  dunno  'bout  dat,  suh.  I  year  tell 
dat  niggers  ain'  got  no  business  fer  go 
talkin'  'bout  fambly  doin's.  Yit  dar  wuz 
yo'  gran 'mam  my.  My  mistiss  sot  lots  by 
her,  en  you  been  bornded  right  yer  long 
wid  um.  I  don't  speck  it'll  be  gwine  so 
mighty  fur  out'n  de  fambly  ef  I  tell  you 
'bout  it." 

I  made  no  attempt  to  coax  Aunt  Foun 
tain  to  tell  me  about  Trunion,  for  I  knew 
it  would  be  difficult  to  bribe  her  not  to 
talk  about  him.  She  waited  awhile,  evi 
dently  to  tease  my  curiosity  ;  but  as  I  be 
trayed  none,  and  even  made  an  effort  to 
talk  about  something  else,  she  began  : 

"  Well,  suh,  you  ax  me  'bout  Marse 
Fess  Trunion.  I  know  you  bleeze  ter  like 
dat  man.  He  ain'  b'long  ter  we-all  folks, 
no  furder  dan  he  my  young  mistiss  ole 
man,  but  dee  ain'  no  finer  w'ite  man  dan 
him.  No,  suh  ;  dee  ain'.  I  tell  you  dat 
p'intedly.  De  niggers,  dee  say  he  mighty 
close  en  pinchin',  but  deze  is  mighty 


AUNT  FOUNTAIN'S  PRISONER     149 

pinchin'  times— you  know  dat  yo'se'f,  suh. 
Ef  a  man  don't  fa'rly  fling  'way  he  money, 
dem  Tomlinson  niggers,  dee'll  say  he 
mighty  pinchin'.  I  hatter  be  pinchin'  my- 
se'f,  suh,  kaze  I  know  time  I  sell  my  gin 
ger-cakes  dat  ef  I  don't  grip  onter  de 
money,  dee  won"  be  none  lef  fer  buy  flour 
en  'lasses  fer  make  mo'.  It  de  Lord's 
trufe,  suh,  kaze  I  done  had  trouble  dat 
way  many's  de  time.  I  say  dis  'bout 
Marse  Fess  Trunion,  ef  he  ain'  got  de 
blood,  he  got  de  breedin'.  Ef  he  ain'  good 
ez  de  Tomlinsons,  he  lots  better  dan 
some  folks  w'at  I  know." 

I  gathered  from  all  this  that  Trunion 
was  a  foreigner  of  some  kind,  but  I  found 
out  my  mistake  later. 

"  I  pick  dat  man  up  myse'f,  en  I  knows 
'im  'most  good  ez  ef  he  wuz  one  er  \ve- 
all." 

"What  do  you  mean  when  you  say 
'  you  picked  him  up  ?  '  "  I  asked,  unable 
to  restrain  my  impatience. 


150  STORIES   OF   THE   SOUTH 

"Well,  suh,  de  fus'  time  I  see  Marse 
Fess  Trunion  wuz  terreckerly  atter  de 
Sherman  army  come  'long.  Dem  wuz  hot 
times,  suh,  col'  ez  de  wedder  wuz.  Dee 
wuz  in  about  er  million  un  um  look  like 
ter  me,  en  dee  des  ravage  de  face  er  de 
yeth.  Dee  tuck  all  de  bosses,  en  all  de 
cows,  en  all  de  chickens.  Yes,  suh  ;  dee 
cert'n'y  did.  Man  come  'long,  en  'low, 
'Aunty,  you  free  now,'  en  den  he  tuck  all 
my  ginger-cakes  w'at  I  bin  bakin'  'g'inst 
Chris'mus*  ;  en  den  I  say,  '  Ef  I  wuz  free 
ez  you  is,  suh,  I'd  fling  you  down  en  take 
dem  ginger-cakes  'way  fum  you.'  Yes, 
suh.  I  tole  ?im  dat.  It  make  me  mad  fer 
see  de  way  dat  man  walk  off  wid  my  gin 
ger-cakes. 

"  I  got  so  mad,  suh,  dat  I  foller  'long 
atter  "im  little  ways  ;  but  dat  ain'  do  no 
good,  kaze  he  come  ter  whar  dee  wuz 
some  yuther  men,  en  dee  'vide  up  dem 
cakes  till  dee  want  no  cake  lef .  Den  I 
struck  'cross  de  plan'ation,  en  walked 


152  STORIES    OF    THE    SOUTH 

'bout  in  de  drizzlin'  rain  tell  I  cool  off  my 
madness,  suh,  kaze  de  flour  dat  went  in 
dem  cakes  cos'  me  mos'  a  hunderd  dollars 
in  good  Confedrick  money.  Yes,  suh  ;  it 
did  dat.  En  I  work  for  dat  money  mighty 
hard. 

"  Well,  suh,  I  ain'  walk  fur  'fo'  it  seem 
like  I  year  some  un  talkin'.  I  stop,  I  did, 
en  lissen,  en  still  I  year  um.  I  ain'  see 
nobody,  suh,  but  still  I  year  um.  I  walk 
fus'  dis  away  en  den  dat  away,  en  den  I 
walk  'roun'  en  'roun',  en  den  it  pop  in  my 
min'  'bout  de  big  gully.  It  ain'  dar  now, 
suh,  but  in  dem  days  we  call  it  de  big 
gully,  kaze  it  wuz  wide  en  deep.  Well, 
suh,  'fo'  I  git  dar  I  see  hoss-tracks,  en  dee 
led  right  up  ter  de  brink.  I  look  in,  I  did, 
en  down  dar  dee  wuz  a  man  en  a  hoss. 
Yes,  suh ;  dee  wuz  bofe  down  dar.  De 
man  wuz  layin'  out  flat  on  he  back,  en  de 
hoss  he  wuz  layin'  sorter  up  en  down  de 
gully  en  right  on  top  er  one  er  de  man  legs, 
en  eve'y  time  de  hoss'd  scrample  en  try 


AUNT  FOUNTAIN'S  PRISONER     153 


fer  git  up  de  man  'ud  talk  at  'im.  I  know 
that  boss  mus'  des  a  nata'lly  groun'  dat 
man  legs  in  de  yeth,  suh.  Yes,  suh.  It 
make  my  flesh  crawl  w'en  I  look  at  urn. 
Yit  de  man  am'  talk  like  he  mad.  No, 
suh,  he  ain' ;  en  it  make  me  feel  like  some 
body  done  gone  en  hit  me  on  de  funny- 
bone  w'en  I  year  'im  talkin'  dat  away. 
Eve'y  time  de  hoss  scuffle,  de  man  he 
'low,  '  Hoi'  up,  ole  fel,  you  er  mashin'  all 
de  shape  out'n  me.'  Dat  w'at  he  say, 
suh.  En  den  he  'low,  '  Ef  you  know  how 
you  hurtin',  ole  fel,  I  des  know  you'd  be 
still.'  Yes,  suh.  Dem  he  ve'y  words. 

"  All  dis  timede  rain  wuz  a-siftin'  down. 
It  fall  mighty  saft,  but  'twuz  monst'ous 
wet,  suh.  Bimeby  I  crope  up  nigher  de 
aidge,  en  w'en  de  man  see  me  he  holler 
out,  '  Hoi'  on,  aunty  ;  don't  you  fall  down 
yer! ' 

"  I  ax  'im,  I  say,  '  Marster,  is  you  hurt- 
ed  much  ?  '  Kaze  time  I  look  at  'im  I 
know  he  ain'  de  villyun  w'at  make  off  wid 


154  STORIES    OF   THE   SOUTH 

my  ginger-cakes.  Den  he  'low,  '  I  speck 
I  hurt  purty  bad,  aunty,  en  de  wuss  un  it 
is  dat  my  hoss  keep  hurtin'  me  mo'.' 

"Den  nex'  time  de  hoss  move  it  error- 
tate  me  so,  suh,  dat  I  holler  at  'im  loud  ez 
I  ken,  '  Wo  dar,  you  scan'lous  villyun  ! 
Wo  ! '  Well,  suh,  I  speck  dat  hoss  mus' 
a-bin  use'n  ter  niggers,  kaze  time  I  holler 
at  'imhe  lay  right  still,  suh.  I  slid  down 

dat  bank,  en  I  kotch  holter  dat  bridle 

I  don't  look  like  I'm  mighty  strong,  does 
I,  suh  ?  "  said  Aunt  Fountain,  pausing 
suddenly  in  her  narrative  to  ask  the  ques 
tion. 

"Well,  no,"  said  I,  humoring  her  as 
much  as  possible.  "You  don't  seem  to 
be  as  strong  as  some  people  I've  seen." 

"  Dat's  it,  suh  !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  Dat 
w'at  worry  me.  I  slid  dcwn  dat  bank,  en 
I  kotch  dat  hoss  by  de  bridle.  De  man 
say,  '  Watch  out  dar,  aunty  !  don't  let  he 
foot  hit  you.  Dee  one  cripple  too  much 
now.1  I  ain'  pay  no'  'tention,  suh.  I  des 


AUNT  FOUNTAIN'S  PRISONER     155 


grab  de  bridle,  en  I  slew  dat  boss  head 
roun',  en  I  fa'rly  lif  'im  on  he  foots.  Yes, 
suh,  I  des  lif  'im  on  he  foots.  Den  I  led 
'im  down  de  gully  en  turnt  'im  a-loose,  en 
you  ain'  never  see  no  boss  supjued  like 
dat  boss  wuz,  suh.  Den  I  went  back  whar 
de  man  layin',  en  ax  'im  ef  he  feel  better, 
en  he  'low  dat  he  feel  like  he  got  a  big 
load  lif  offen  he  min',  en  den,  mos'  time 
he  say  dat,  suh,  he  faint  dead  away.  Yes, 
suh.  He  des  faint  dead  away.  I  ain' 
never  is  see  no  man  like  dat,  w'at  kin  be 
jokin'  one  minnit  en  den  de  nex'  be  dead, 
ez  you  may  say.  But  dat's  Marse  Fess 
Trunion,  suh.  Dat's  him  up  en  down. 

"  Well,  suh,  I  stan'  dar,  I  did,  en  I  ain' 
know  w'at  in  de  name  er  de  Lord  I  gwine 
do.  I  wuz  des  ez  wringin'  wet  ez  if  I'd 
a-bin  baptize  in  de  water  ;  en  de  man  he 
wuz  mo'  wetter  dan  w'at  I  wuz,  en  good 
ness  knows  how  long  he  bin  layin'  dar.  I 
run  back  ter  de  big-'ouse,  suh,  mighty 
nigh  a  mile,  en  I  done  my  level  bes'  fer 


156  STORIES    OF    THE    SOUTH 

fin'  some  er  de  niggers  en  git  um  fer  go 
wid  me  back  dar  en  git  de  man.  But  I 
ain'  fin'  none  un  um,  suh.  Dem  \v'at  ain' 
gone  wid  de  Sherman  army,  dee  done 
hide  out.  Den  I  went  in  de  big-'ouse, 
suh,  en  tell  Mistiss  'bout  de  man  down  dar 
in  de  gully,  en  how  he  done  hurted  so  bad 
he  ain'  kin  walk.  Den  Mistiss — I  speck 
you  done  fergit  Mistiss,  suh — Mistiss,  she 
draw  herse'f  up  en  ax  w'at  business  dat 
man  er  any  yuther  man  got  on  her  plan- 
'ation.  I  say,  '  Yassum,  dat  so  ;  but  he 
done  dar,  en  ef  he  stay  dar  he  gvvine  die 
dar.'  Yes,  suh  ;  dat  w'at  I  say.  I  des  put 
it  at  Mistiss  right  pine-blank. 

"Den  my  young  mistiss — dat's  Miss 
Lady,  suh — she  say  dat  dough  she  spize 
um  all  dez  bad  ez  she  kin,  dat  man  mus' 
be  brung  'way  from  dar.  Raze,  she  say, 
she  don't  keer  how  yuther  folks  go  on, 
de  Tomlinsons  is  bleeze  to  do  like 
Christun  people.  Yes,  suh.  She  say 
dem  ve'y  words.  Den  Mistiss,  she  'low 


AUNT  FOUNTAIN'S  PRISONER     157 

dat  de  man  kin  be  brung  up  en  put  in  de 
corn-crib,  but  Miss  Lady,  she  say  no,  he 
mus'  be  brung  en  put  right  dar  in  de  big- 
'ouse  in  one  er  de  up-sta'rs  rooms,  kaze 
maybe  some  er  dem  State  erGeorgy  boys 
mought  be  hurted  up  dar  in  de  Norf,  en 
want  some  place  fer  stay  at.  Yes,  suh. 
Dat  des  de  way  she  talk.  Den  Mistiss, 
she  ain'  say  nothin',  yet  she  hoi' her  head 
mighty  high. 

"  Well,  suh,  I  went  back  out  in  de 
yard,  en  den  I  went  'cross 
ter  de  nigger-quarter,  en 
I  ain'  gone  fur  tell  I 
year  my  ole  man  pray- 
in'  in  dar  some'r's.  I 
know  'im  by  he  v'ice, 
suh,  en  he  wuz  prayin'  des 
like  it  wuz  camp-meetin'  time.  I  hunt 
'roun'  fer  'im,  suh,  en  bimeby  I  fin' 
'im  squattin'  down  behime  de  do'.  I 
grab  !im,  I  did,  en  I  shuck  'im,  en  I  'low, 
4  Git  up  fum  yer,  you  nasty,  stinkin'  ole 


158  STORIES    OF    THE   SOUTH 


villyun,  you  !  '  Yes,  suh  ;  I  wuz  mad.  I 
say,  '  Wat  you  doin'  squattin'  down  on  de 
no'  ?  Git  up  fum  dar  en  come  go  'long 
wid  me !  '  I  hatter  laugh,  suh,  kaze  w'en 
I  shuck  my  ole  man  by  de  shoulder,  en 
holler  at  'im,  he  put  up  he  two  han',  suh, 
en  squall  out,  '  Oh,  pray,  marster  !  Don't 
kill  me  dis  time,  en  I  ain'  never  gwine  do 
it  no  mo' ! ' 

"Atter  he  'come  pacify,  suh,  den  I  tell 
him  'bout  de  man  down  dar  in  de  gully, 
en  yit  we  ain'  know  w'at  ter  do.  My  ole 
man  done  hide  out  some  er  de  mules  en 
hosses  down  in  de  swamp,  en  he  feard  ter 
go  atter  um,  suh,  kaze  he  skeerd  de  Sher 
man  army  would  come  marchin'  back  en 
fine  um,  en  he  'low  dat  he  mos1  know  dee 
er'  comin'  back  atter  dat  man  down  dar. 
Yes,  suh.  He  de  skeerdest  nigger  w'at  I 
ever  see,  ef  I  do  say  it  myse'f.  Yit,  bime- 
by  he  put  out  atter  one  er  de  hosses,  en 
he  brung  'im  back  ;  en  we  hitch  'im  up  in 
de  spring-waggin*  en  atter  dat  man  we 


AUNT  FOUNTAIN'S  PRISONER     159 

went.  Yes,  suh  ;  we  did  dat.  En  w'en 
we  git  dar,  dat  ar  man  wuz  plum  ravin' 
deestracted.  He  wuz  laughin'  en  talkin' 
wid  hese'f,  en  gwine  on,  tell  it  make  yo' 
blood  run  col'  fer  lissen  at  'im.  Yes,  suh. 

"Me  en  my  ole  man,  we  pick  'im  up 
des  like  he  wuz  baby.  I  come  mighty  nigh 
droppin'  'im,  suh,  kaze  one  time,  wiles  we 
kyarn  'im  up  de  bank,  I  year  de  bones  in 
he  leg  rasp  up  'g'inst  one  er  n'er.  Yes, 
suh.  It  made  me  blin'  sick,  suh.  We 
kyard  'im  home  en  put  'im  up-st'ars,  en 
dar  he  stayed  fer  many's  de  long  day." 

"Where  was  Judge  Tomlinson?"  I 
asked.  At  this  Aunt  Fountain  grew  more 
serious  than  ever — a  seriousness  that  was 
expressed  by  an  increased  particularity 
and  emphasis  in  both  speech  and  manner. 

"  You  axin'  'bout  Marster?  Well,  suh, 
he  wuz  dar.  He  wuz  cert'n'y  dar  wid  Mis- 
tiss  en  Miss  Lady,  suh,  but  look  like  he 
ain'  take  no  intruss  in  w'at  gwine  on. 
Some  folks  'low,  suh,  dat  he  ain'  right  in 


l6o  STORIES   OF   THE   SOUTH 

he  head,  but  dee  ain'  know  'im — dee  ain' 
know  'im,  suh,  like  we-all.  Endurin'  er 
de  war,  suh,  he  wuz  strucken  wid  de  polzy, 
en  den  w'en  he  git  well,  he  ain1  take  no 
intruss  in  w'at  gwine  on.  Dey'd  be  long 
days,  suh,  w'en  he  ain'  take  no  notice  er 
nobody  ner  nuttin'  but  Miss  Lady.  He 
des  had  dem  spells  ;  en  den,  ag'in,  he'd 
set  out  on  de  peazzer  en  sing  by  hese'f, 
en  it  make  me  feel  so  lonesome  dat  I 
bleeze  ter  cry.  Yes,  suh  ;  it's  de  Lord's 
trufe. 

"  Well,  suh,  dat  man  w'at  I  fin'  out  dar 
in  de  gully  wuz  Mars  Fess  Trunion.  Yes, 
suh  ;  de  ve'y  same  man.  Dee  ain'  no  tel- 
lin'  w'at  dat  po'  creetur  gone  thoo  wid. 
He  had  fever,  he  had  pneumony,  en  he 
had  dat  broke  leg.  En  all  'long  wid  dat 
dee  want  skacely  no  time  w'en  he  want 
laughin'  en  jokin'.  Our  w'ite  folks,  dee 
des  spized  'im  kase  he  bin  wid  Sherman 
army.  Dee  say  he  wuz  Yankee  ;  but  I 
tell  urn,  suh,  dat  ef  Yankee  look  dat  away 


AUNT  FOUNTAIN'S  PRISONER     161 


dee  wuz  cert'n'y  mighty  like  we-all.  Mis- 
tiss,  she  ain'  never  go  'bout  'im  wiles  he 
sick ;  en  Miss  Lady,  she  keep  mighty  shy, 
en  she  tu'n  up  her  nose  eve'y  time  she 
year  'im  laugh.  Oh,  yes,  suh.  Dee  cer 
t'n'y  spize  de  Yankees  endurin'  er  dem 
times.  Dee  hated  um  rank,  suh.  I  tell 
um,  I  say,  '  You-all  des  wait.  Dee  ain' 
no  nicer  man  dan  w'at  he  is,  en  you-all 
des  wait  tell  you  know  'im.'  Shoo!  I 
des  might  ez  well  talk  ter  de  win',  suh — 
dee  hate  de  Yankees  dat  rank. 

"  By  de  time  dat  man  git  so  he  kin 
creep  'bout  on  crutches,  he  look  mos' 
good  ez  he  do  now.  He  wuz  dat  full  er 
life,  suh,  dat  he  bleeze  ter  go  down-st'ars, 
en  down  he  went.  Well,  suh,  he  wuz 
mighty  lucky  dat  day.  Kaze  ef  he'd  a 
run  up  wid  Mistiss  en  Miss  Lady  by  hese'f, 
dee'd  er  done  sumpn'  ner  fer  ter  make  'im 
feel  bad.  Dee  cert'n'y  would,  suh.  But 
dee  wuz  walkin'  'roun'  in  de  yard,  en  he 
come  out  on  de  peazzer  whar  Marster 


162  STORIES   OF   THE   SOUTH 


wuz  sunnin*  hese'f  en  singin'.  I  vvouldn' 
b'lieve  it,  suh,  ef  I  ain1  see  it  wid  my  two 
eyes  ;  but  Marster  got  up  out'n  he  cheer, 
en  straighten  hese'f  en  shuck  han's  wid 
Mars  Fess,  en  look  like  he  know  all  'bout 
it.  Dee  sot  dar,  suh,  en  talk  en  laugh,  en 
laugh  en  talk,  tell  bimeby  I  'gun  ter  git 
.skeerd  on  de  accounts  er  bofe  un  um. 
Dee  talk  'bout  de  war,  en  dee  talk  'bout 
•de  Yankees,  en  dee  talk  politics  right 
straight  'long  des  like  Marster  done  'fo'  he 
bin  strucken  wid  de  polzy.  En  he  talk 
.sense,  suh.  He  cert'n'y  did.  Bimeby 
Mistiss  en  Miss  Lady  come  back  fum  dee 
walk,  en  dee  look  like  dee  gwine  drap 
w'en  dee  see  w'at  gwine  on.  Dem  two 
mens  wuz  so  busy  talkin',  suh,  datdee  ain' 
see  de  wimmen  folks,  en  dee  des  keep 
right  on  wid  clee  argafyin'.  Mistiss  en 
Miss  Lady,  dee  ain'  know  w'at  ter  make 
er  all  dis,  en  dee  stan'  dar  lookin'  fus'  at 
Marster  en  den  at  one  er  n'er.  Bimeby 
dee  went  up  de  steps  en  start  to  go  by, 


AUNT  FOUNTAIN'S  PRISONER     163 


but  Marster  he  riz  up  en  stop  um.  Yes, 
suh.  He  riz  right  up  en  stop  um,  en 
right  den  en  dar,  suh,  he  make  um  inter- 
juced  ter  one  an'er.  He  stan'  up  en  he 
say,  '  Mr.  Trunion,  dis  my  wife  ;  Mr. 
Trunion,  dis  my  daughter.' 

"Well,  suh,  I  wuz  stannin'  back  in  de 
big  hall,  en  w'en  I  see  Marster  gwine  on 
dat  away  my  knees  come  mighty  nigh 
failin'  me,  suh.  Dis  de  fus'  time  w'at  he 
reckermember  anybody  name,  an  de  fus1 
time  he  do  like  he  useter,  sence  he  bin 
sick  wid  de  polzy.  Mistiss  en  Miss  Lady, 
dee  come  'long  in  atter  w'ile  en  dee  look 
like  dee  skeerd.  Well,  suh,  I  des  fa'rly 
preach  at  um.  Yes,  suh  ;  I  did  dat.  I 
say,  '  You  see  dat  ?  You  see  how  Marster 
doin'  ?  Ef  de  han1  er  de  Lord  ain'  in  dat, 
en  he  han'  ain'd  bin  in  nuttin'  on  de  top  side 
erdis  yeth. '  I  say,  '  You  see  how  you  bin 
cuttin'  up  'roun*  dat  sick  w'ite  man,  wid 
yo1  biggity  capers,  en  yit  de  Lord  retch 
down  en  make  Marster  soun'  en  well  time 


164  STORIES    OF   THE    SOUTH 


de  yuther  w'ite  man  tetch  'im.'  Well,  suh, 
dey  wuz  dat  worked  up  dat  dey  sot  down 
en  cried.  Yes,  suh  ;  dey  did  dat.  Dey 
cried.  En  I  am'  tellin'  you  no  lie,  suh, 
I  stood  dar  en  cried  wid  um.  Let  'lone 
dat,  I  des  fa'rly  boohooed.  Yes,  suh ; 
dat's  me.  Wen  I  git  ter  cryin',  sho'  nuff, 
I  bleeze  ter  boohoo. 

"  Fum  dat  on,  Marster  do  like  hese'f  en 
talk  like  hese'f.  It  look  like  he  bin  sleep 
long  time,  suh,  en  de  sleep  done  'im  good. 
All  he  sense  come  back  ;  en  you  know,  suh, 
de  Tomlinsons.  w'en  dey  at  deese'f,  got 
much  sense  ez  dee  want  en  some  fer  give 
way.  Mistiss  and  Miss  Lady,  dee  wuz 
mighty  proud  'bout  Marster,  suh,  but 
dee  ain'  fergit  dat  de  yuther  man  wuz 
Yankee,  en  dee  hoi'  deese'f  monst'ous 
stiff.  He  notice  dat  hese'f,  en  he  want  ter 
go  'way,  but  Marster,  he  'fuse  ter  lissen 
at  'im  right  pine-blank,  suh.  He  say  de 
dead  Tomlinsons  would  in  about  turn 
over  in  dee  graves  ef  dee  know  he  sont  a 


AUNT  FOUNTAIN'S  PRISONER     165 


cripple  man  'way  from  he  'ouse.  Den  he 
want  ter  pay  he  board,  but  Marster  ain' 
lissen  ter  dat,  en  needer  is  Mistiss  ;  en 
dis  mighty  funny,  too,  kaze  right  dat  min- 
nit  dee  want  a  half  er  dollar  er  good 
money  in  dee  whole  fambly,  ceppin'  some 
silver  w'at  I  work  fer  en  w'at  I  hide  in  er 
chink  er  my  chimbly.  No,  suh.  Dee 
want  er  half  er  dollar  in  de  whole  fambly, 
suh.  En  yit  dee  won't  take  de  greenbacks 
w'at  dat  man  offer  um. 

"  By  dat  time,  suh,  de  war  wuz  done 
done,  en  dee  wuz  tough  times.  Dee  cer- 
t'n'y  wuz,  suh.  De  railroads  wuz  all 
broke  up,  en  eve'ything  look  like  it  gwine 
helter-skelter  right  straight  ter  de  Ole 
Boy.  Dey  want  no  law,  suh,  en  dey  want 
no  nuttin'  ;  en  ef  it  hadn't  er  bin  fer  me 
en  my  ole  man  I  speck  de  Tomlinsons, 
proud  ez  dee  wuz,  would  er  bin  mightily 
pincht  fer  fin'  bread  en  meat.  But  dee 
ain'  never  want  fer  it  yit,  suh,  kaze  w'en  me 
en  my  ole  man  git  whar  we  can't  move  no 


l66  STORIES    OF    THE    SOUTH 


furder,  Marse  Fess  Trunion,  he  tuck  holt 
er  de  place  en  he  fetcht  it  right  side  up 
terreckerly.  He  say  ter  me  dat  he  gwine 
pay  he  board  dat  away,  suh,  but  he  ain' 
say  it  whar  de  Tomlinsons  kin  year  'im, 
kaze  den  dee'd  a-bin  a  fuss,  suh.  But  he 
kotch  holt,  en  me,  en  him,  en  my  ole  man, 
we  des  he't  eve'ything  hot.  Mo'  speshu- 
ally  Marse  Fess  Trunion,  suh.  You  ain' 
know  'im,  suh,  but  dat  ar  w'ite  man,  he 
got  mo'  ways  ter  work,  en  mo'  short  cuts 
ter  de  ways,  suh,  dan  any  w'ite  man  w'at 
I  ever  see,  en  I  done  see  lots  un  um.  It 
got  so,  suh,  dat  me  en  my  ole  man  ain' 
have  ter  draw  no  mo'  rashuns  fum  de 
F'eedman  Bureau  ;  but  dee  wuz  one  spell, 
suh,  w'en  wuss  rashuns  dan  dem  wuz  on 
de  Tomlinson  table. 

"  Well,  suh,  dat  w'ite  man,  he  work  en 
he  scuffle  ;  he  hire  niggers,  and  he  turn 
urn  off;  he  plan,  enheprojick  ;  en  'tain'  so 
mighty  long,  suh,  'fo'  he  got  eve'ything 
gwine  straight.  How  he  done  it  I'll  never 


AUNT  FOUNTAIN'S  PRISONER     167 


tell  you,  suh ;  but  do  it  he  did.  He  put 
he  own  money  in  dar,  suh,  kaze  dee  \vuz 
two  times  dat  I  knows  un  w'en  he  git 
money  out'n  de  pos'-office,  en  I  see  'im 
pay  it  out  ter  de  niggers,  suh.  En  all  dat 
time  he  look  like  he  de  nappies'  w'ite  man 
on  top  er  de  groun',  suh.  Yes,  suh.  En 
w'en  he  at  de  'ouse  Marster  stuck  right  by 
'im,  en  if  he  bin  he  own  son  he  couldn't 
pay  him  mo'  'tention.  Dee  wuz  times, 
suh,  w'en  it  seem  like  ter  me  dat  Marse 
Fess  Trunion  wuz  a-cuttin'  he  eye  at  Miss 
Lady,  en  den  I  'low  ter  myse'f,  '  Shoo, 
man  !  you  mighty  nice  en  all  dat,  but  you 
Yankee,  en  you  nee'nter  be  a-drappin' 
yo'  wing  'roun'  Miss  Lady,  kaze  she  too 
high-strung  fer  dat.' 

"  It  look  like  he  see  it  de  same  way 
I  do,  suh,  kaze  atter  he  git  eve'ything 
straight  he  say  he  gwine  home.  Marster 
look  like  he  feel  mighty  bad,  but  Mistiss 
en  Miss  Lady,  dee  ain'  say  nuttin'  'tall. 
Den,  atter  w'ile,  suh,  Marse  Fess  Trunion 


168  STORIES    OF    THE    SOUTH 

fix  up,  en  off  he  put.  Yes,  suh.  He  went 
off  whar  he  come  fum,  en  I  speck  he  folks  ' 
\vuz  mighty  glad  ter  see  'im  atter  so  long, 
kaze  ef  dee  ever  wuz  a  plum  nice  man 
it  wuz  dat  man.  He  want  no  great  big 
man,  suh,  en  he  ain'  make  much  fuss, 
yit  he  lef  a  mighty  big  hole  at  de  Tomlin- 
son  Place  w'en  he  pulled  out  fum  dar. 
Yes,  suh  ;  he  did  dat.  It  look  like  it  lone 
some  all  over  de  plan'ation.  Marster,  he 
'gun  ter  git  droopy,  but  eve'y  time  de 
dinner-bell  ring  he  go  ter  de  foot  er  de 
sta'rs  en  call  out,  '  Come  on,  Trunion  !  ' 
Yes.  suh.  He  holler  dat  out  eve'y  day, 
en  den,  wiles  he  be  talkin',  he'd  stop  en 
look  roun'  en  say,  '  Whar  Trunion  ?  '  It 
ain'  make  no  diffunce  who  he  talkin'  wid, 
suh,  he'd  des  stop  right  still  en  ax,  '  Whar 
Trunion  ? '  Den  de  niggers,  dee  got 
slack,  en  eve'ything'  'gun  ter  go  een'ways. 
One  day  I  run  up  on  Miss  Lady  settin' 
down  cry  in',  en  I  ax  her  w'at  de  name  er 
goodness  de  matter,  en  she  say  nuff  de 


AUNT  FOUNTAIN'S  PRISONER     169 


matter.  Den  I  say  she  better  go  ask  her 
pappy  whar  Trunion,  en  den  she  git  red 
in  de  face,  en  'low  I  better  go  'ten1  ter  my 
business ;  en  den  I  tell  her  dat  ef  some 
body  ain'  tell  us  whar  Trunion  is,  en 
dat  mighty  quick,  dee  won't  be  no  busi 
ness  on  dat  place  fer  'ten'  ter.  Yes,  suh. 
I  tol'  her  dat  right  p'intedly,  suh. 

"  Well,  suh,  one  day  Marse  Fess  Trun 
ion  come  a-drivin'  up  in  a  shiny  double- 
buggy,  en  he  look  like  he  des  step  right 
out'n  a  ban'-box  ;  en  ef  ever  I  wuz  glad 
ter  see  anybody,  I  wuz  glad  ter  see  dat 
man.  Marster  was  glad  ;  en  dis  time, 
suh,  Miss  Lady  wuz  glad,  en  she  show  it 
right  plain;  but  Mistiss,  she  still  sniff  de 
a'r  en  hoi'  her  head  high.  'Twant  long, 
suh,  'fo1  we  all  knowed  dat  Marse  Fess 
wuz  gwine  marry  Miss  Lady.  I  ain' 
know  how  dee  fix  it,  kaze  Mistiss  never  is 
come  right  out  en  say  she  'greeable  'bout 
it,  but  Miss  Lady  wuz  a  Bledsoe,  too,  en  a 
Tomlinson  ter  boot,  en  I  ain'  never  see 


170  STORIES    OF   THE   SOUTH 


nobody  w'at  impatient  nuff  fer  ter  stan' 
out  'g'inst  dat  gal.  It  ain1  all  happen, 
s.uh,  quick  ez  I  tell  it,  but  it  happen  ;  en 
but  fer  dat,  I  dunno  w'at  in  de  name  er 
goodness  would  er  'come  er  dis  place." 

A  few  hours  later,  as  I  sat  with  Trunion 
on  the  veranda  of  his  house,  he  verified 
Aunt  Fountain's  story,  but  not  until  after 
he  was  convinced  that  I  was  familiar  with 
the  history  of  the  family.  There  was 
much  in  that  history  he  could  afford  to  be 
proud  of,  modern  though  he  was.  A  man 
who  believes  in  the  results  of  blood  in 
cattle  is  not  likely  to  ignore  the  possibility 
of  similar  results  in  human  beings  ;  and 
I  think  he  regarded  the  matter  in  some 
such  practical  light.  He  was  a  man,  it 
seemed,  who  was  disposed  to  look  lightly 
on  trouble  once  it  was  over  with,  and  I 
found  he  was  not  so  much  impressed  with 
his  struggle  against  the  positive  scorn  and 
contempt  of  Mrs.  Tomlinson — a  struggle 
that  was  infinitely  more  important  and 


AUNT  FOUNTAIN'S  PRISONER     171 


protracted  than  Aunt  Fountain  had  de 
scribed  it  to  be— as  he  was  with  his  con 
flict  with  Bermuda  grass.  He  told  me 
laughingly  of  some  of  his  troubles  with 
his  hot-headed  neighbors  in  the  early 
days  after  the  war,  but  nothing  of  this  sort 
seemed  to  be  as  important  as  his  difficul 
ties  with  Bermuda  grass.  Here  the  prac 
tical  and  progressive  man  showed  him 
self;  for  I  have  a  very  vivid  recollection 
of  the  desperate  attempts  of  the  farmers 
of  that  region  to  uproot  and  destroy  this 
particular  variety. 

As  for  Trunion,  he  conquered  it  by 
cultivating  it,  for  the  benefit  of  himself 
and  his  neighbors,  and  I  suspect  that  this 
is  the  way  he  conquered  his  other  oppo 
nents.  It  was  a  great  victory  over  the 
grass  at  any  rate.  I  walked  with  him  over 
the  Place,  and  the  picture  of  it  all  is  still 
framed  in  my  mind — the  wonderful  hedges 
of  Cherokee  roses,  and  the  fragrant  and 
fertile  stretches  of  green  Bermuda  through 


172  STORIES    OF    THE    SOUTH 

which  beautiful  fawn-colored  cattle  were 
leisurely  making  their  way.  He  had  a 
theory  that  this  was  the  only  grass  in  the 
world  fit  for  the  dainty  Jersey  cow  to  eat. 

There  were  comforts  and  conveniences 
on  the  Tomlinson  Place  not  dreamed  of 
in  the  old  days,  and  I  think  there  was  sub 
stantial  happiness  there,  too.  Trunion 
himself  was  a  wholesome  man,  a  man  full 
of  honest  affection,  hearty  laughter,  and 
hard  work — a  breezy,  companionable,  en 
ergetic  man.  There  was  something  boy 
ish,  unaffected,  and  winsome  in  his  man 
ners,  and  I  can  easily  understand  why 
Judge  Addison  Tomlinson,  in  his  old  age, 
insisted  on  astonishing  his  family  and  his 
guests  by  exclaiming,  "  Where's  Trim- 
ion  ?  "  Certainly  he  was  a  man  to  think 
about  and  inquire  after. 

I  have  rarely  seen  a  livelier  woman  than 
his  wife,  and  I  think  her  happiness  helped 
to  make  her  so.  She  had  inherited  a  cer 
tain  degree  of  cold  stateliness  from  her 


AUNT  FOUNTAIN'S  PRISONER     173 

ancestors,  but  her  experience  after  the 
war  and  Trunion's  unaffected  ways  had 
acted  as  powerful  correctives,  and  there 
was  nothing  in  the  shape  of  indifference 
or  haughtiness  to  mar  her  singular  beauty. 
As  for  Mrs.  Tomlinson — the  habit  is 
still  strong  in  me  to  call  her  Harriet  Bled- 
soe — I  think  that  in  her  secret  soul  she 
had  an  ineradicable  contempt  for  Trun- 
ion's  extraordinary  business  energy.  I 
think  his  "  push  and  vim,"  as  the  phrase 
goes,  shocked  her  sense  of  propriety  to  a 
far  greater  extent  than  she  would  have 
been  willing  to  admit.  But  she  had  little 
time  to  think  of  these  matters;  for  she 
had  taken  possession  of  her  grandson, 
Master  Addison  Tomlinson  Trunion,  and 
was  absorbed  in  his  wild  and  boisterous 
ways,  as  grandmothers  will  be.  This 
boy,  a  brave  and  manly  little  fellow,  had 
Trunion's  temper,  but  he  had  inherited 
the  Tomlinson  air.  It  became  him  well, 
too,  and  I  think  Trunion  was  proud  of  it. 


174  STORIES    OF   THE    SOUTH 


"  I  am  glad,"  said  I,  in  parting,  "  that 
I  have  seen  Aunt  Fountain's  Prisoner." 

"Ah!"  said  he,  looking  at  his  wife, 
who  smiled  and  blushed,  "that  was  dur 
ing  the  war.  Since  then  I  have  been  a 
Prisoner  of  Peace." 

I  do  not  know  what  industrial  theories 
Trunion  has  impressed  on  his  neighbor 
hood  by  this  time,  but  he  gave  me  a  prac 
tical  illustration  of  the  fact  that  one  may 
be  a  Yankee  and  a  Southerner  too,  simply 
by  being  a  large-hearted,  whole-souled 
American. 


TIRAR  Y  SOULT 

BY  REBECCA  HARDING   DAVIS 


ROBERT  KNIGHT,  who  was  born,  bred, 
and  trained  in  New  England,  suckled  on 
her  creeds  and  weaned  on  her  doubts, 
went  directly  from  college  to  a  Louisiana 
plantation.  The  change,  as  he  felt,  was 
extreme. 


178  STORIES    OF    THE    SOUTH 


He  happened  to  go  in  this  way.  He 
was  a  civil  engineer.  A  company  was 
formed  among  the  planters  in  the  Gulf 
parishes  to  drain  their  marshes  in  order 
to  establish  large  rice-farms.  James  B. 
Eads,  who  knew  Knight,  gave  his  name  to 
them  as  that  of  a  promising  young  fellow 
who  was  quite  competent  to  do  the  simple 
work  that  they  required,  and  one,  too, 
who  would  probably  give  more  zeal  and 
time  to  it  than  would  a  man  whose  repu 
tation  was  assured. 

After  Mr.  Knight  had  thoroughly  exam 
ined  the  scene  of  operations,  he  was  in 
vited  by  the  president  of  the  company, 
M.  de  Fourgon,  to  go  with  him  to  his 
plantation,  the  Lit  de  Fleurs,  where  he 
would  meet  the  directors  of  the  company. 

"The  change  is  great  and  sudden," 
he  wrote  to  his  confidential  friend,  Miss 
Cramer.  "  From  Boston  to  the  Bed 
of  Flowers,  from  the  Concord  School  of 
Philosophy  to  the  companionship  of  ex- 


TIRAK    Y    SOULT  IJ9 


slave-holders,  from  Emerson  to  Gayarre  ! 
I  expected  to  lose  my  breath  mentally.  I 
expected  to  find  the  plantation  a  vast 
exhibit  of  fertility,  disorder,  and  dirt  ; 
the  men,  illiterate  fire-eaters  ;  the  women, 
houris  such  as  our  fathers  used  to  read  of 
in  Tom  Moore.  Instead,  I  find  the  farm, 
huge,  it  is  true,  but  orderly  ;  the  corn 
fields  are  laid  out  with  the  exact  neatness 
of  a  Dutch  garden.  The  Works  are  run 
by  skilled  German  workmen.  The  direc 
tors  are  shrewd  and  wide-awake.  Mad 
ame  de  Fourgon  is  a  fat,  commonplace 
little  woman.  There  are  other  women — 
the  house  swarms  with  guests — but  not 
an  houri  among  them.  Till  to-morrow. 
"  R.  K." 

The  conclusion  was  abrupt,  but  Knight 
had  reached  the  bottom  of  the  page  of 
his  writing-pad.  He  tore  it  off,  put  it  in 
a  business-envelope,  and  mailed  it.  He 
and  Miss  Cramer  observed  a  certain 


l8o  STORIES    OF   THE   SOUTH 


manly  disregard  to  petty  conventional 
ities.  He  wrote  to  her  on  the  backs  of 
old  envelopes,  scraps  of  wrapping-paper, 
anything  that  came  first  to  hand.  She 
liked  it.  He  was  poor  and  she  was  poor, 
and  they  were  two  good  fellows  roughing 
it  together.  They  delighted  in  expressing 
their  contempt  for  elegant  knick-knackery 
of  any  sort,  in  dress,  literature,  or  religion. 

"  Give  me  the  honest — the  solid  !  "  was 
Emma  Cramer's  motto,  and  Knight 
thought  the  sentiment  very  high  and  fine. 
Emma  herself  was  a  little  person,  with  an 
insignificant  nose,  and  a  skin,  hair,  and 
eyes  all  of  one  yellowish  tint.  A  certain 
fluffiness  and  piquancy  of  dress  would 
have  made  her  positively  pretty.  But  she 
went  about  in  a  tightly  fitting  gray  gown, 
with  a  white  pocket-handkerchief  pinned 
about  her  neck,  and  her  hair  in  a  small 
knob  on  top. 

But,  blunt  as  she  was,  she  did  not  like 
the  blunt  ending  of  this  letter. 


TIRAR   Y   SOULT  l8l 


What  were  the  women  like  who  were 
not  houris  ?  He  might  have  known  that 
she  would  have  some  curiosity  about 
them.  Had  they  any  intellectual  training 
whatever  ?  She  supposed  they  could 
dance  and  sing  and  embroider  like  those 
poor  things  in  harems 

Miss  Cramer  lived  on  a  farm  near  the 
village  of  Throop.  That  evening,  after 
she  had  finished  her  work,  she  took  the 
letter  over  to  read  to  Mrs.  Knight.  There 
were  no  secrets  in  any  letter  to  her  from 
Robert  which  his  mother  could  not  share. 
They  were  all  intimate  friends  together, 
Mrs.  Knight  being,  perhaps,  the  youngest 
and  giddiest  of  the  three.  The  Knights 
knew  how  her  uncle  overworked  the  girl, 
for  Emma  was  an  orphan,  and  dependent 
on  him.  They  knew  all  the  kinds  of  medi 
cine  she  took  for  her  dyspepsia,  and  ex 
actly  how  much  she  earned  by  writing 
book-reviews  for  a  Boston  paper.  Emma, 
too,  could  tell  to  a  dollar  what  Robert's 


182  STORIES    OF   THE   SOUTH 


yearly  expenses  had  been  at  college. 
They  had  all  shared  in  the  terrible  anxie 
ty  lest  no  position  should  offer  for  him, 
and  rejoiced  together  in  this  opening  in 
Louisiana. 

Mrs.  Knight  ran  to  meet  her.  "Oh, 
you  have  had  a  letter,  too?  Here  is 
mine  !  " 

She  read  the  letter  with  nervous  nods 
and  laughs  of  exultation,  the  butterfly- 
bow  of  yellow  ribbon  in  her  cap  fluttering 
as  if  in  triumph.  Emma  sat  down  on  the 
steps  of  the  porch  with  an  odd,  chilled 
feeling  that  she  was  somehow  shut  out 
from  the  victory. 

11  The  '  Bed  of  Flowers  ?  '  What  a  pe 
culiar  name  for  a  farm  !  And  how  odd  it 
was  in  this  Mr.  de  Fourgon  to  ask  Robert 
to  stay  at  his  house  !  Do  you  suppose  he 
will  charge  him  boarding,  Emma  ?  " 

"  No,  I  think  not." 

"  Well,  Robert  will  save  nothing  by 
that.  He  must  make  it  up  somehow.  I 


TIRAR    Y    SOULT  183 


wouldn't  have  him  under  obligation  to  the 
man  for  his  keep.  I've  written  to  him  to 
put  his  salary  in  the  Throop  Savings  Bank 
till  he  wants  to  invest  it.  He  will  have 
splendid  chances  for  investment,  travel 
ling  over  the  country — East,  West,  South 
— everywhere  !  House  full  of  women  ? 
I  hope  he  will  not  be  falling  in  love  in  a 
hurry.  Robert  ought  to  marry  well  now." 
Miss  Cramer  said  nothing.  The  sun 
had  set,  and  a  cold  twilight  had  settled 
down  over  the  rocky  fields,  with  their  thin 
crops  of  hay.  To  the  right  was  Mrs. 
Knight's  patch,  divided  into  tiny  beds  of 
potatoes,  corn,  and  cabbage.  As  Emma's 
eyes  fell  on  it  she  remembered  how  many 
years  she  had  helped  the  widow  rake  and 
weed  that  field,  and  how  they  had  tri 
umphed  in  every  shilling  which  they  made 
by  the  garden-stuff.  For  Robert — all  for 
Robert ! 

Now  he  had  laid  his  hand  on  the  world's 
neck  and  conquered  it !     North  and  West 


184  STORIES    OF    THE    SOUTH 

and  that  great  tropical  South,  with  its 
flowers  and  houris — all  were  open  to  him  ! 
She  looked  around  the  circle  of  barren 
fields.  He  had  gone  out  of  doors,  and  she 
was  shut  in  ! 

She  bade  his  mother  good-night,  and 
went  down  the  darkening  road  homeward. 
What  a  fool  she  was  !  The  fact  that  Rob 
ert  had  a  good  salary  could  not  change 
the  whole  order  of  the  world  in  a  day. 
Her  comradeship  with  Knight,  their  plans, 
their  sympathy — this  was  the  order  of  the 
world  which  seemed  eternal  and  solid  to 
poor  Emma. 

"  I  am  his  friend,"  she  told  herself  now. 
"  If  he  had  twenty  wives,  none  of  them 
could  take  my  place." 

Now,  Knight  had  not  hinted  at  the  pos 
sibility  of  wiving  in  his  letter.  There  had 
never  been  a  word  or  glance  of  love-mak 
ing  between  him  and  Emma  ;  yet  she  saw 
him,  quite  distinctly  now,  at  the  altar,  and 
beside  him  a  black-eyed  houri. 


TIRAR    Y    SOULT 


She  entered  the  farm-house  by  the  kitch 
en.  There  was  the  bacon,  cut  ready  to 
cook  for  breakfast,  and  the  clothes  dam 
pened  for  ironing.  Up  in  her  own  bare 
chamber  were  paper  and  ink  and  two 


books  for  review — "  Abstract  of  Greek 
Philosophy"  and  "  Subdrainage." 

These  reviews  were  one  way  in  which 
she  had  tried  to  interest  him.  Interest 
him  !  Greek  philosophy  !  Drainage  ! 

She  threw  the  books  on  the  floor,  and, 


186  STORIES    OF    THE    SOUTH 


running  to  the  glass,  unloosened  her  hair 
and  ran  her  fingers  through  it,  tore  the 
handkerchief  from  her  neck,  scanned  with 
a  breathless  eagerness  her  pale  eyes, 
her  freckled  skin,  and  shapeless  nose,  and 
then,  burying  her  face  in  her  hands, 
turned  away  into  the  dark. 

The  night  air  that  was  so  thin  and  chilly 
in  Throop  blew  over  the  Lit  de  Fleurs  wet 
and  heavy  with  the  scents,  good  and  bad, 
of  the  Gulf  marshes.  Madame  de  Four- 
gon's  guests  had  left  the  supper-table,  and 
were  seated  on  the  low  gallery  which  ran 
around  the  house,  or  lounged  in  the  ham 
mocks  that  swung  under  the  huge  magno 
lias  on  the  lawn.  There  were  one  or  two 
women  of  undoubted  beauty  among  them  ; 
but  Robert  Knight  was  not  concerned,  that 
night,  with  the  good-  or  ill-looks  of  any 
woman,  either  in  Throop  or  Louisiana. 
He  was  amused  by  a  new  companion,  a 
Monsieur  Tirar,  who  had  ridden  over  from 


TIRAR    Y    SOULT  187 


a  neighboring  plantation.  Knight  at  first 
took  him  for  an  overgrown  boy  ;  but  on 
coming  close  to  him,  he  perceived  streaks 
of  gray  in  the  close-cut  hair  and  beard. 

Tirar  had  sung  and  acted  a  comic  song, 
after  dinner,  at  which  the  older  men 
laughed  as  at  the  capers  of  a  monkey. 
While  they  were  at  cards  he  played  cro 
quet  with  the  children.  The  women  sent 
him  on  errands.  "Jose,  my  thimble  is  in 
the  library!"  "Jose,  do  see  where  the 
nurse  has  taken  baby  !  "  etc. 

A  chair  had  been  brought  out  now  for 
M.  de  Fourgon's  aunt,  an  old  woman  with 
snowy  hair  and  delicate,  high  features. 
Jose  flew  to  bring  her  a  shawl  and  wrapped 
it  about  her.  She  patted  him  on  his  fat 
cheek,  telling  Knight,  as  he  capered  away, 
how  invaluable  was  the  cher  enfant. 

"  He  made  that  Creole  sauce  to-day. 
Ah,  the  petit  gourmand  has  many  secrets 
of  crabs  and  soups.  He  says  the  chefs  in 
Paris  confide  in  him,  but  they  are  original, 


188  STORIES    OF   THE   SOUTH 


monsieur ;  they  are  born  in  Jose's  leetle 
brain — "  tapping  her  own  forehead. 

"  Ah,  hear  him  now!  'Tis  the  voice  of 
a  seraph  !  "  She  threw  up  her  hands,  to 
command  silence  in  earth  and  sky  ;  lean 
ing  back  and  closing  her  eyes,  while  the 
little  man,  seated  with  his  guitar  at  the 
feet  of  a  pretty  girl,  sang.  Even  Knight's 
sluggish  nerves  were  thrilled.  He  had 
never  heard  such  a  voice  as  this.  It 
wrung  his  heart  with  its  dateless  pain 
and  pathos.  Ashamed  of  his  emotion, 
he  turned  to  go  away.  But  there  was  a 
breathless  silence  about  him.  The  Creoles 
all  love  music,  and  Jose's  voice  was  famous 
throughout  the  Gulf  parishes.  Even  the 
negro  nurses  stood  staring  and  open- 
mouthed. 

The  song  ended  and  Tirar  lounged  into 
the  house.  v 

"Queer  dog!"  said  M.  de  Fourgon. 
"  He  will  not  touch  a  guitar  again  per 
haps  for  months." 


TIRAR   Y   SOULT 


"  He  would  sing  if  I  ask  it,"  said  the  old 
lady.  "  He  has  reverence  for  the  age." 

M.  de  Fourgon,  behind  her,  lifted  his 
eyebrows.  "Jose,"  he  said,  aside  to 
Knight,  "  is  a  good  fellow  enough  up  here 
among  the  women  and  babies  ;  but  with 
his  own  crew,  at  the  St.  Charles,  there  is 
no  more  rakehelly  scamp  in  New  Orleans. " 

"  Is  he  a  planter?  "  asked  the  curious 
New  Englander.  Madame  Dessaix's  keen 
ears  caught  the  question. 

"  Ah,  the  poor  lad  !  he  has  no  land,  not 
an  acre  !  His  father  was  a  Spaniard,  Ruy 
Tirar,  who  married  Bonaventura  Soult. 
The  Soult  and  Tirar  plantations  were  im 
mense  on  the  Bayou  Sara.  Jose's  father 
had  his  share.  But  crevasse — cards — the 
war — all  gone  !  " — opening  wide  her  hands. 
"  When  your  government  declared  peace, 
it  left  our  poor  Jose,  at  twenty,  with  the 
income  of  a  beggar." 

"  But  that  was  fifteen  years  ago,"  said 
Knight.  "  Could  he  not  retrieve  his  fort- 


igo  STORIES    OF    THE    SOUTH 

une  by  his  profession — business  ?  What 
does  he  do  ?  " 

"Do?  do?" — she  turned  an  amazed, 
perplexed  face  from  one  to  the  other. 
"Does  he  think  that  Jose  shall  work? 
Jose  !  Man  Dieu  !  " 

"  Tirar,"  said  M.  de  Fourgon,  laugh 
ing,  "is  not  precisely  a  business-man, 
Mr.  Knight.  He  has  countless  friends  and 
kinsfolk.  We  are  all  cousins  of  the  Tirars 
or  Souks.  He  is  welcome  everywhere." 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Knight,  with  a  significant 
nod.  Even  in  his  brief  stay  in  this  neigh 
borhood  he  had  found  other  men  than 
Jose  living  in  absolute  idleness  in  a  com 
munity  which  was  no  longer  wealthy. 
They  were  neither  old,  ill,  nor  incapable. 
It  was  simply  not  their  humor  to  work. 
They  were  supported,  and  as  carefully 
guarded  as  pieces  of  priceless  porcelain. 
It  is  a  lax,  extravagant  feature  of  life,  as 
natural  to  Louisiana  as  it  is  impossible  to 
•Coanecticut. 


TIRAR   Y    SOULT  IQI 


It  irritated  Knight,  yet  it  attracted  him, 
as  any  novelty  does  a  young  man.  He 
turned  away  from  his  companions,  and 
sauntered  up  and  down  in  the  twilight. 
To  live  without  work  on  those  rich,  prod 
igal  prairies,  never  to  think  of  to-morrow, 
to  give  without  stint,  even  to  lazy  para 
sites — there  was  something  royal  about 
that.  It  touched  his  fancy.  He  had 
known,  remember,  nothing  but  Throop 
and  hard  work  for  twenty-two  years. 

The  air  had  grown  chilly.  Inside,  M. 
Tirar  had  kindled  a  huge  fire  on  the 
hearth.  He  was  kneeling,  fanning  it  with 
the  bellows,  while  a  young  girl  leaned  in 
dolently  against  the  mantel,  watching  the 
flames,  and  now  and  then  motioning  to 
Jose  to  throw  on  another  log.  The  trifling 
action  startled  Knight  oddly.  How  they 
wasted  that  wood  !  All  through  his  boy 
hood  he  used  to  gather  every  twig  and  chip. 
How  often  he  had  longed  to  make  one  big, 
wasteful  fire,  as  they  were  doing  now. 


192 


STORIES    OF    THE    SOUTH 


The  young  lady  was  a  Miss  Venn,  who 
had  been  civil  to  him.  It  occurred  to  him 
that  she  was  the  very 
embodiment  of  the 
lavish  life  of  this 
place.  He  did  not, 
then  or  afterward, 
consider  whether  she 
was  beautiful  or  not. 
But  the  soft,  loose 
masses  of  reddish 
hair,  and  the  large, 
calm,  blue  eyes 
must,  he  thought, 
belong  to  a  woman 
who  was  a  generous 
spendthrift  of  life. 

Perhaps  Knight 
was  at  heart  a  spend 
thrift.  At  all  events, 
he  suddenly  felt  a 

strange  eagerness  to  become  better  ac 
quainted   with    Miss   Venn.     He   sought 


TIRAR   Y    SOULT  193 

her  out,  the  next  morning,  among  the 
groups  under  the  magnolias.  There 
could  be  no  question  that  she  was  stupid. 
She  had  read  nothing  but  her  Bible  and 
the  stories  in  the  newspapers,  and  had  no 
opinions  about  either.  But  she  confessed 
to  ignorance  of  nothing,  lying  with  the 
most  placid,  innocent  smile. 

"'Hamlet?'  Oh,  yes;  I  read  that 
when  it  first  came  out.  But  those  things 
slip  through  my  mind  like  water  through 
a  sieve." 

To  Robert,  whose  brain  had  long  been 
rasped  by  Emma's  prickly  ideas,  this  dul- 
ness  was  as  a  downy  bed  of  ease.  Emma 
was  perpetually  struggling  after  progress 
with  every  power  of  her  brain.  It  never 
occurred  to  Lucretia  Venn  to  plan  what 
she  should  do  to-morrow,  or  at  any  future 
time.  In  Throop,  too,  there  was  much 
hard  prejudice  between  the  neighbors. 
To  be  clever  was  to  have  a  sharp  acerbity 
of  wit ;  Emma's  sarcasms  cut  like  a  thong. 


194  STOKIES    OF    THE    SOUTH 


But  these  people  were  born  kind  ;  they 
were  friendly  to  all  the  world,  while  in 
Lucretia  there  was  a  warm  affluence  of 
nature  which  made  her  the  centre  of  all 
this  warm,  pleasant  life.  The  old  people 
called  her  by  some  pet  name,  the  dogs 
followed  her,  the  children  climbed  into  her 
lap.  Knight  with  her  felt  like  a  traveller 
who  has  been  long  lost  on  a  bare,  cold 
marsh  and  has  come  into  a  fire-lighted 
room. 

One  afternoon  he  received  the  card  of 
M.  Jose  Tirar  y  Soult,  who  came  to  call 
upon  him  formally.  The  little  fop  was 
dazzling  in  white  linen,  diamond  solitaires 
blazing  on  his  breast  and  wrists. 

"You  go  to  ride?"  he  said,  as  the 
horses  were  brought  round.  "  Lucretia, 
my  child,  you  go  to  ride  ?  It  portends 
rain  " — hopping  to  the  edge  of  the  gal 
lery.  "  You  will  take  cold  !  " 

"There  is  not  a  cloud  in  the  sky," 
said  M.  de  Fourgon.  "  Come,  Lucretia, 


TIRAR   Y    SOULT  195 


mount !  Jose  always  fancies  you  on  the 
edge  of  some  calamity." 

"  It  goes  to  storm,"  persisted  Tirar. 
"  You  must  wear  a  heavier  habit,  my  lit 
tle  girl." 

Miss  Venn  laughed,  ran  to  her  own 
room,  and  changed  her  habit. 

"What  way  shall  you  ride?"  Jose 
anxiously  inquired  of  Knight. 

"  To  the  marshes." 

"  It  is  very  dangerous  there,  sir.  There 
are  herds  of  wild  cattle,  and  slippery 
ground" — fuming  up  and  down  the  gal 
lery.  "Well,  well!  Tirar  himself  will 
go.  I  will  not  see  the  child's  life  in  risk." 

Knight  was  annoyed.  "  What  relation 
does  Monsieur  Tirar  hold  to  Miss  Venn  ?  " 
he  asked  his  host,  apart.  "  He  assumes 
the  control  of  a  father  over  her." 

"  He  is  her  cousin.  He  used  to  nurse 
the  child  on  his  knee,  and  he  does  not 
realize  that  she  has  grown  to  be  a  woman. 
Oh,  yes,  the  poor  little  man  loves  her  as 


196  STORIES    OF    THE    SOUTH 

if  she  were  his  own  child  !  When  their 
grandfather,  Louis  Soult,  died,  two  years 
ago,  he  left  all  his  estate  to  Lucretia,  and 
not  a  dollar  to  Jose.  It  was  brutal !  But 
Jose  was  delighted.  '  A  woman  must  have 
money,  or  she  is  cold  in  the  world,'  he 
said.  '  But  to  shorn  lambs,  like  me,  every 
wind  is  tempered.'  " 

Mr.  Knight  was  thoughtful  during  the 
first  part  of  the  ride.  "  I  did  not  know," 
he  said,  presently,  to  young  McCann, 
from  St.  Louis,  a  stranger  like  himself, 
"  that  Miss  Venn  was  a  wealthy  woman." 

"  Oh,  yes,  the  largest  land-holder  in 
this  parish,  and  ten  thousand  a  year, 
clear,  besides." 

Ten  thousand  a  year!  And  Emma 
drudging  till  midnight  for  two  or  three 
dollars  a  column  !  Poor  Emma  !  A  gush 
of  unwonted  tenderness  filled  his  heart. 
The  homely,  faithful  soul ! 

Ten  thousand  a  year  !  Knight  would 
have  been  humiliated  to  think  that  this 


TIRAR   Y    SOULT  197 


money  could  change  his  feeling  to  the 
young  woman  who  owned  it.  But  it  did 
change  it.  She  was  no  longer  only  a  dull, 
fascinating  appeal  to  his  imagination.  She 
was  a  power  ;  something  to  be  regarded 
with  respect,  like  a  Building  Association 
or  Pacific  Railway  stocks.  But  for  some 
unexplained  reason  he  carefully  avoided 
her  during  the  ride.  Miss  Venn  was  an 
noyed  at  this  desertion,  and  showed  it  as 
a  child  would  do.  She  beckoned  him 
again  and  again  to  look  at  a  heron's  nest, 
or  at  the  water-snakes  darting  through 
the  ridges  of  the  bayou,  or  at  a  family  of 
chameleons  who  were  keeping  house  on  a 
prickly-pear.  Finding  that  he  did  not 
stay  at  her  side,  she  gave  up  her  innocent 
wiles,  at  last,  and  rode  on  in  silence. 
M.  Tirar  then  flung  himself  headlong  into 
the  breach.  He  poured  forth  information 
about  Louisiana  for  Knight's  benefit,  with 
his  own  flighty  opinions  tagged  thereto. 
He  told  stories  and  laughed  at  them  louder 


198  STORIES    OF    THE   SOUTH 


than  anybody  else,  his  brown  eyes  danc 
ing  with  fun  ;  but  through  all  he  kept  a 
furtive  watch  upon  Lucretia,  to  see  the 
effect  upon  her. 

They  had  now  reached  the  marshes 
which  lie  along  the  Gulf.  They  were 
covered  with  a  thin  grass,  which  shone 
bright-emerald  in  the  hot  noon.  The  tide 
soaked  the  earth  beneath,  and  drove  back 
the  narrow  lagoons  that  were  creeping 
seaward.  A  herd  of  raw-boned  cattle 
wandered  aimlessly  over  the  spongy  sur 
face,  doubtful  whether  the  land  was  water, 
or  the  water,  land.  They  staggered  as 
they  walked,  from  sheer  weakness ;  one 
steer  fell  exhausted,  and  as  Lucretia's 
horse  passed,  it  lifted  its  head  feebly, 
looked  at  her  with  beseeching  eyes,  and 
dropped  it  again.  A  flock  of  buzzards  in 
the  distance  scented  their  prey  and  began 
to  swoop  down  out  of  the  clear  sky, 
flashes  of  black  across  the  vivid  green  of 
the  prairie,  with  lower  and  lower  dips  un- 


TIRAR    Y    SOULT  IQ9 

til  they  alighted,  quivering,  on  the  dying 
beast  and  began  to  tear  the  flesh  from  its 
side. 

Jose  rode  them  down,  yelling  with  rage. 
He  came  back  jabbering  in  Spanish  and 
looking  gloomily  over  the  vast,  empty 
marsh.  "  I  hate  death  anywhere,  but  this 
is  wholesale  murder !  These  wretched 
Cajans  of  the  marsh  raise  larger  herds 
than  they  can  feed  ;  they  starve  by  the 
hundreds.  That  poor  beast  is  dead — 
thanks  be  to  God!"  After  a  pause. 
"Well,  well!"  he  cried,  with  a  shrug, 
"your  syndicate  will  soon  convert  this 
delta  into  solid  ground,  Mr.  Knight ;  it  is 
a  noble  work  !  Vast  fortunes  " — with  a 
magniloquent  sweep  of  his  arm — "  lie  hid 
den  under  this  mud." 

"Why  don't  you  take  a  share  in  the 
noble  work,  then?"  asked  McCann. 
"That  is,  if  it  would  not  interfere  with 
your  other  occupations  ?  " 

"  Me  ?    I  have  no  occupations  !     What 


200  STORIES    OF    THE    SOUTH 


work  should  I  do?"  asked  Jose,  with  a 
fillip  of  his  pudgy  fingers.  Presently  he 
galloped  up  to  Miss  Venn's  side  with  an 
anxious  face. 

11  Lucrezia,  my  child,  has  it  occurred  to 
you  that  you  would  like  me  better  if  I 
were  doctor,  or  lawyer,  or  something  ?  " 

She  looked  at  him,  bewildered,  but  said 
nothing. 

"  It  has  not  occurred  to  me"  he  went 
on,  seriously.  "  I  have  three,  four  hun 
dred  dollars  every  year  to  buy  my  clothes. 
I  have  the  Tirar  jewelry.  What  more 
do  I  want?  Everything  I  need  comes  to 
me." 

"Certainly,  why  not  ?"  she  answered, 
absently,  her  eyes  wandering  in  search  of 
something  across  the  marsh. 

"Then  you  do  not  mind?"  he  per 
sisted,  anxiously.  "  I  wish  my  little  girl 
to  be  pleased  with  old  Jose.  As  for  the 
rest  of  the  world  "—he  cracked  his  thumb 
contemptuously. 


TIRAR   Y   SOULT 


Miss  Venn  smiled  faintly.  She  had  not 
even  heard  him.  She  was  watching 
Knight,  who  had  left  the  party  and  was 
riding  homeward  alone.  Jose  fancied 
there  were  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"  Lucrezia  !  " 

No  answer. 

"  Lucrezia,  do  not  worry  !  /am  here." 

"You!  Oh,  Man  Dieu !  You  are  al 
ways  here  !  "  she  broke  forth,  pettishly. 

Jose  gasped  as  if  he  had  been  struck, 
then  he  reined  in  his  horse,  falling 
back,  while  Mr.  McCann  gladly  took  his 
place. 

M.  Tirar,  after  that  day,  did  not  return 
to  the  plantation.  Once  he  met  M.  de 
Fourgon  somewhere  in  the  parish,  and 
with  a  sickly  smile  asked  if  Lucretia  were 
in  good  health.  "  Remember,  Jean,"  he 
added,  earnestly,  riding  with  him  a  little 
way,  "  /  am  that  little  girl's  guardian.  If 
she  ever  marry,  it  is  Jose  who  must  give 
her  awav.  So  ridiculous  in  her  father  to 


STORIES    OF    THE    SOUTH 


make  a  foolish  young  fellow  like  me  her 
guardian  !  " 

"  Not  at  all !  No,  indeed  !  Very  prop 
er,  Tirar,"  said  M.  de  Fourgon,  politely, 
at  which  Jose's  face  grew  still  paler  and 
more  grave. 

One  day  he  appeared  about  noon  on 
the  gallery.  His  shoes  were  muddy,  his 
clothes  the  color  of  a  bedraggled  moth. 

"Ah,  mon  enfant/"  cried  Madame 
Dessaix,  kindly,  from  her  chair  in  a  shady 
corner.  "What  is  wrong?  No  white 
costume  this  day,  no  diamonds,  no  laugh  ? 
What  is  it,  Jose?  " 

"  Nothing,  madame,"  said  the  little 
man  drearily.  "  I  grow  old.  I  dress  no 
more  as  a  young  man.  I  accommodate 
myself  to  the  age — the  wrinkles." 

"Wrinkles?  Bah!  Come  and  sit  by 
me.  For  whom  is  it  that  you  look  ?  " 

"  But — I  thought  I  heard  Lucrezia 
laugh  as  I  rode  up  the  levee  ?  " 

Madame  Dessaix  nodded   significantly 


TIRAR    Y    SOULT  203 


and,  putting  her  fingers  on  her  lips,  with 
all  the  delight  that  a  Frenchwoman  takes 
in  lovers,  led  him,  on  tiptoe,  to  the  end 
of  the  gallery  and,  drawing  aside  the 
vines,  showed  him  Lucretia  in  a  hammock 
under  a  gigantic  pecan-tree.  A  mist  of 
hanging  green  moss  closed  about  her. 
She  lay  in  it  as  a  soft,  white  bird  in  a 
huge  nest.  Knight  stood  leaning  against 
the  trunk  of  the  tree,  looking  down  at  her, 
his  thin  face  intent  and  heated.  He  had 
spoken  to  her,  but  she  did  not  answer. 
She  smiled  lazily,  as  she  did  when  the 
children  patted  her  on  the  cheek. 

"  Voila  la  petite  !  "  whispered  Madame 
Dessaix,  triumphantly.  Then  she  glanced 
at  M.  Tirar,  finding  that  he  looked  on  in 
silence.  He  roused  himself,  with  a  queer 
noise  in  his  throat. 

"Yes,  yes!  Now — what  does  she  an 
swer  him  ?  " 

"Mere  de  Dieu  /  What  can  she  answer  ? 
He  is  young.  He  is  a  man  who  has  his 


204  STORIES    OF    THE    SOUTH 


own  way.  He  will  have  no  answer  but 
the  one  !  We  consider  the  affair  fin 
ished  !  " 

Tirar  made  no  comment.  He  turned 
and  walked  quickly  down  to  the  barn 
yard,  where  the  children  were,  and  stood 
among  them  and  the  cows  for  awhile.  The 
stable-boys,  used  to  jokes  and  picayunes 
from  him,  turned  handsprings  and  sky 
larked  under  his  feet.  Finding  that  he 
neither  laughed  nor  swore  at  them,  they 
began  to  watch  him  more  narrowly,  and 
noticed  his  shabby  clothes  with  amazed 
contempt. 

"Don  Jose  seek,  ta-ta !  "  they  whis 
pered.  "Don  Jose,  yo' no  see  mud  on 
yo'  clo'es  ?  " 

But  he  stood  leaning  over  the  fence, 
deaf  and  blind  to  them. 

His  tormentors  tried  another  point  of 
attack.  "  Don  Jose  no  seek,  but  his  mare 
seek.  Poor  Chiquita !  She  old  horse 
now." 


TIRAR    Y    SOULT 


"  It's  a  damned  lie  !  "  Tirar  turned  on 
the  boy  with  such  fury  that  he  jumped 
back.  "  She's  not  old  !  Bring  her  out  !  " 

The  negroes  tumbled  over  each  other 
in  their  fright.  The  little  white  mare  was 
led  out.  Jose  patted  her  with  trembling 
hands.  Whatever  great  trouble  had 
shaken  him  turned  for  the  moment  into 
this  petty  outlet. 

"  There  is  not  such  ahorse  in  Attaka- 
pas  !  "  he  muttered  to  himself.  "I  am 
old,  but  she  is  young  !  "  The  mare  whin 
nied  with  pleasure  as  he  stroked  her  and 
mounted. 

As  he  rode  from  the  enclosure  a  clum 
sy  bay  horse  was  led  out  of  the  stable. 
Knight  came  down  the  levee  to  meet  it. 
Jose  scanned  it  with  fierce  contempt. 
"Ah,  the  low-born  beast  !  And  its  master 
is  no  otherwise  !  But  who  can  tell  what 
shall  please  the  little  girl  ?  " 

But  Tirar  could  not  shut  his  eyes  to  the 
fact  that  the  figure  on  the  heavy  horse  was 


206  STORIES    OF    THE    SOUTH 

manly  and  fine.  The  courage  in  his  heart 
was  at  its  lowest  ebb. 

"Jose  is  old  and  fat — fat.  That  is  a 
young  fellow — he  is  like  a  man  !  "  His 
chin  quivered  like  a  hysteric  woman's. 
The  next  minute  he  threw  himself  on  the 
mare's  neck. 

"  I  have  only  you  now,  Chiquita  !  No 
body  but  you  !  " 

She  threw  back  her  ears  and  skimmed 
across  the  prairie  with  the  hoof  of  a  deer. 
When  he  passed  Knight,  M.  Tirar  saluted 
him  with  profound  courtesy. 

"Funny  little  man,"  said  Robert  to 
McCann,  who  had  joined  him.  "  You 
might  call  him  a  note  of  exaggeration  in 
the  world.  But  that  is  a  fine  horse  that  he 
rides." 

"  Yes  ;  a  famous  racer  in  her  day,  they 
tell  me.  Tirar  talks  of  her  as  if  she  were 
a  blood-relation.  I  wish  we  had  horses  of 
her  build  just  now.  That  brute  of  yours 
sinks  in  the  mud  with  every  step." 


TIRAR   Y    SOULT  207 

"  It  is  deeper  than  usual  to-day.  I  don't 
understand  it.  We  have  had  no  rain." 

They  separated  in  a  few  minutes, 
Knight  taking  his  way  to  the  sea-marshes. 

The  marshes  were  always  silent,  but 
there  was  a  singular,  deep  stillness  upon 
them  to-day.  The  sun  was  hidden  by 
low-hanging  mists,  but  it  turned  them  into 
tent-like  veils  of  soft,  silvery  brilliance. 
The  colors  and  even  the  scents  of  the 
marshes  were  oddly  intensified  beneath 
them  ;  the  air  held  the  strong  smells  of  the 
grass  and  roses  motionless  ;  the  lagoons, 
usually  chocolate-colored,  were  inky  black 
between  their  fringes  of  yellow  and  purple 
flags  ;  the  countless  circular  pools  of  clear 
water  seemed  to  have  increased  in  num 
ber,  and  leaped  and  bubbled  as  if  alive. 

If  poor  Emma  could  but  turn  her  eyes 
from  the  barren  fields  of  Throop  to  this 
strange,  enchanted  plain  ! 

He  checked  himself.  What  right  had 
he  to  wish  for  Emma  ?  Lucretia — 


208  STORIES   OF   THE   SOUTH 


But  Lucretia  would  see  nothing  in  it  but 
mud  and  weeds  ! 

Lucretia  was  a  dear  soul ;  but  after  all, 
he  thought,  with  a  laugh,  her  best  quali 
ties  were  those  of  an  amiable  cow.  That 
very  day  he  had  brought  himself  to  make 
love  to  her  with  as  much  force  as  his  brain 
could  put  into  the  words,  and  she  had 
listened  with  the  amused,  pleased,  ox-like 
stare  of  one  of  these  cattle  when  its  sides 
were  tickled  by  the  long  grass.  She  had 
given  him  no  definite  answer. 

Knight  ploughed  his  way  through  the 
spongy  prairie,  therefore,  in  a  surly  ill- 
humor,  which  the  unusual  depth  of  mud 
did  not  make  more  amiable.  He  was 
forced  to  ride  into  the  bayoux  every  few 
minutes  to  wash  the  clammy  lumps  from 
the  legs  of  his  horse. 

Where  M.  Tirar  went  that  day,  he  him 
self,  when  afternoon  came,  could  not  have 
told  distinctly.  He  had  a  vague  remem 
brance  that  he  had  stopped  at  one  or  two 


TIRAR   Y    SOULT  209 


Acadian  farm  -  houses  for  no  purpose 
whatever.  He  was  not  a  drinking 
man,  and  had  tasted  nothing  but  water 
all  day,  yet  his  brain  was  stunned  and 
bruised,  as  if  he  was  rousing  from  a  long 
debauch.  When  he  came  to  himself  he 
was  on  the  lower  marshes.  Chiquita  had 
suddenly  stopped,  planted  her  legs  apart 
like  a  mule,  and  refused  to  budge  an  inch 
farther.  What  ailed  this  bayou?  It,  too, 
had  come  to  a  halt,  and  had  swollen  into 
a  stagnant  black  pond. 

Jose  was  altogether  awake  now.  He 
understood  what  had  happened.  A  heavy 
spring  tide  in  the  Gulf  had  barred  all  out 
let  for  the  bayous,  which  cut  through  the 
marshes.  The  great  river,  for  which  they 
were  but  mouths,  was  already  forcing  its 
way  over  their  banks  and  oozing  through 
all  the  spongy  soil.  There  was  no  imme 
diate  danger  of  his  drowning  ;  but  unless 
he  made  instant  escape,  there  was  a  cer 
tainty  that  he  would  be  held  and  sucked 


STORIES    OF    THE    SOUTH 


into  the  vast  and  rapidly  spreading  quick 
sands  of  mud  until  he  did  drown. 

If  Chiquita ? 

He  wheeled  her  head  to  the  land  and 
called  to  her.  She  began  to  move  with 
extreme  caution,  testing  each  step,  now 
and  then  leaping  to  a  hummock  of  solid 
earth.  Twice  she  stopped  and  changed 
her  course.  Jose  dismounted  several 
times  and  tried  to  lead  her.  But  he  soon 
was  bogged  knee-deep.  He  saw  that  the 
instinct  of  the  horse  was  safer  than  his 
judgment,  and  at  last  sat  quietly  in  the 
saddle.  At  ordinary  times  he  would  have 
sworn  and  scolded,  and,  perhaps,  being 
alone,  have  shed  tears,  for  Jose  was  at 
heart  a  coward  and  dearly  loved  his 
life. 

But  to-day  it  was  low  tide  in  the  little 
man's  heart.  The  bulk  of  life  had  gone 
from  him  with  Lucretia.  His  love  for  her 
had  given  him  dignity  in  his  own  eyes  ; 
without  her  he  was  a  poor  buffoon,  who 


TIRAR    Y    SOULT 


carried  his  jokes  from  house  to  house  in 
payment  for  alms. 

He  did  what  he  could,  however,  to  save 
his  life,  rationally  enough— threw  off  his 
heavy  boots,  and  the  Spanish  saddle,  to 
lighten  the  load  on  the  mare,  patted  her, 
sang  and  laughed  to  cheer  her.  Once, 
when  the  outlook  was  desperate,  he 
jumped  off.  "She  shall  not  die!"  he 
said,  fiercely.  He  tried  to  drive  her 
away,  but  she  stood  still,  gazing  at  him 
wistfully. 

"Aha!"  shouted  Jose,  delighted,  nod 
ding  to  some  invisible  looker-on.  "  Do 
you  see  that  ?  She  will  not  forsake  me  ! 
So,  my  darling  !  You  and  Tirar  will 
keep  together  to  the  last."  He  mounted 
again. 

Chiquita,  after  that,  made  slow  but 
steady  progress.  She  reached  a  higher 
plateau.  Even  there  the  pools  were 
rapidly  widening ;  the  oozing  water  began 
to  shine  between  the  blades  of  grass.  In 


212  STORIES    OF    THE    SOUTH 

less  than  an  hour  this  level  also  would  be 
in  the  sea. 

But  in  less  than  an  hour  Chiquita  would 
have  brought  him  to  dry  ground. 

Jose  talked  to  her  incessantly  now,  in 
Spanish,  arguing  as  to  this  course  or  that. 

"  Ha  !  What  is  that  ?  "  he  cried,  pull 
ing  her  up.  "That  black  lump  by  the 
bayou  ?  A  man — no  !  A  horse  and  man  ! 
They  are  sinking — held  fast !  " 

He  was  silent  a  moment,  panting  with 
excitement.  Then — "  It  is  Knight !  "  he 
cried.  "  Caught  like  a  rat  in  a  trap  !  He 
will  die — thanks  be  to  God  !  " 

If  Knight  were  dead,  Lucretia  would  be 
his  own  little  girl  again. 

The  thought  was  the  flash  of  a  moment. 
Knight's  back  was  toward  him.  Jose,  un 
seen,  waited  irresolute. 

After  the  first  murderous  triumph  he 
hoped  Robert  could  be  saved.  Tirar  was 
a  coward,  but  at  bottom  he  was  a  man 
— how  much  of  a  man  remained  to  be 


TIRAR   Y    SOULT  213 

proved.  The  longer  he  looked  at  the 
engineer  the  more  he  hated  him,  with  a 
blind,  childish  fury. 

"  But  I  am  not  murderer — I !  "  he  said 
to  himself,  mechanically,  again  and  again. 

Chiquita  pawed,  impatient  to  be  off. 
The  water  was  rising  about  her  hoofs.  It 
sparkled  now  everywhere  below  the 
reeds.  Death  was  waiting  for  both  the 
men  —  a  still,  silent,  certain  death  —  the 
more  horrible  because  there  was  no  fury 
or  darkness  in  it.  The  silvery  mist  still 
shut  the  world  in,  like  the  walls  of  a  tent ; 
the  purple  and  yellow  flags  shone  in  the 
quiet  light. 

Chiquita  could  save  one,  and  but  one. 

The  Tirars  and  Soults  had  been  men 
of  courage  and  honor  for  generations. 
Their  blood  was  quickening  in  his  fat 
little  body. 

A  thought  struck  him  like  a  stab  from 
a  knife.  "If  Knight  dies,  it  will  break 
her  heart.  But  me  !  "  Then  he  cracked 


214  STORIES    OF    THE    SOUTH 


his  thumb  contemptuously.     "  What  does 
she  care  for  poor  old  Jose  ?  " 

We  will  not  ask  what  passed  in  his 
heart  during  the  next  ten  minutes. 

He  and  his  God  were  alone  together. 

He  came  up  to  Knight  and  tapped 
him  on  the  shoulder.  "Hello!  What's 
wrong  ?  " 

"  I'm  bogged.  This  brute  of  a  horse  is 
sinking  in  the  infernal  mud." 

"  Don't  jerk  at  him  !  I'll  change  horses 
with  you,  if  you  are  in  a  hurry  to  reach 
the  plantation.  Chiquita  can  take  you 
more  quickly  than  he." 

"But  you? — I  don't  understand  you. 
What  will  you  do  ?  " 

u  I  am  in  no  hurry." 

' '  This  horse  will  not  carry  you.  It  seems 
to  me  that  the  mud  is  growing  deeper." 

"  I  understand  the  horses  and  mud  of 
our  marshes  better  than  you.  Come, 
take  Chiquita.  Go  !  " 

Knight  alighted  and  mounted  the  mare, 


TIRAR    Y    SOULT  215 


with  a  perplexed  face.  He  had  begun  to 
think  himself  in  actual  danger,  and  was 
mortified  to  find  that  Jose  made  so  light 
of  the  affair. 

"Well,  good-day,  Monsieur  Tirar  !  " 
he  said.  "  It  is  very  kind  in  you  to  take 
that  confounded  beast  off  my  hands.  I'll 
sell  him  to-morrow  if  I  can."  He  nodded 
to  Jose,  and  jerked  the  bridle  sharply. 
"  Come,  get  up  !  "  he  said,  touching  Chi- 
quita  with  a  whip. 

Jose  leaped  at  him  like  a  cat.  "  Dam 
nation  !  Don't  dare  to  touch  her  !  " — 
wrenching  the  whip  from  his  hand,  and 
raising  it  to  strike  him.  "  Pardon,  sir," 
stiffening  himself,  "  my  horse  will  not  bear 
a  stroke.  Do  not  speak  to  her  and  she 
will  carry  you  safely."  His  hand  rested  a 
moment  on  the  mare's  neck.  He  mut 
tered  something  to  her  in  Spanish,  and 
then  he  turned  his  back  that  he  might  not 
see  her  go  away. 

Mr.  Knight  reached  the  upper  marshes 


216  STORIES    OF    THE    SOUTH 


in  about  two  hours.  He  caught  sight  of 
a  boat  going  down  the  bayou,  and  recog 
nizing  M.  de  Fourgon  and  some  other 
men  from  the  plantation  in  it,  rode  down 
to  meet  them. 

"  Thank  God,  you  are  safe,  Knight !  " 
exclaimed  M.  de  Fourgon.  "  How's 
that  ?  Surely  that  is  Chiquita  you  are 
riding  !  Where  did  you  find  her  ?  " 

"  That  queer  little  Mexican  insisted  that 
I  should  swap  horses  with  him.  My  nag 
was  bogged,  and " 

The  men  looked  at  each  other. 

"  Where  did  you  leave  him  ?  " 

"  In  the  sea-marsh,  near  the  mouth  of 
this  bayou.  Why,  what  do  you  mean  ? 
Is  he  in  danger  ?  Stop  !  "  he  shouted,  as 
they  pulled  away  without  a  word.  "  For 
God's  sake,  let  me  go  with  you  !  "  He 
left  Chiquita  on  the  bank  and  leaped  into 
the  boat,  taking  an  oar. 

"  You  do  not  mean  that  Tirar  has 
risked  his  life  for  mine  ?  "  he  said. 


2l8  STORIES    OF   THE   SOUTH 


"It  looks  like  it,"  McCann  replied. 
"  And  yet  I  could  have  sworn  that  he  dis 
liked  you,  especially." 

"  The  old  Tirar  blood  has  not  perished 
from  off  the  earth,"  said  M.  de  Fourgon, 
in  a  low  voice.  "Give  way  !  Together 
no\v  !  I  fear  we  are  too  late." 

The  whole  marsh  was  under  water  be 
fore  they  reached  it.  They  found  Jose's 
body  submerged,  but  wedged  in  the 
crotch  of  a  pecan-tree,  into  which  he  had 
climbed.  It  fell  like  a  stone  into  the  boat. 

M.  de  Fourgon  laid  his  ear  to  his  heart, 
pressed  his  chest,  and  rose,  replying  by  a 
shake  of  the  head  to  their  looks.  He  took 
up  his  oar  and  rowed  in  silence  for  a  few 
minutes. 

"  Pull,  gentlemen  !  "  he  said,  hoarsely. 
"  The  night  is  almost  upon  us.  We  will 
take  him  to  my  house." 

But  Knight  did  not  believe  that  Jose 
was  dead.  He  stripped  him,  and  rubbed 
and  chafed  the  sodden  body  in  the  bottom 


TIRAR    Y    SOULT  219 


of  the  boat.  When  they  reached  the 
house  and,  after  hours  of  vain  effort,  even 
the  physician  gave  up,  Knight  would  not 
listen  to  him. 

"He  shall  not  die,  I  tell  you!  Why 
should  his  life  be  given  for  mine  ?  I  did 
not  even  thank  him,  brute  that  I  am  !  " 

It  was  but  a  few  minutes  after  that,  that 
he  looked  up  from  his  rubbing,  his  face 
growing  suddenly  white.  The  doctor  put 
his  hand  on  Tirar's  breast.  "  It  beats  !  " 
he  cried,  excitedly.  "  Stand  back!  Air 
— brandy  !  " 

At  last  Jose  opened  his  eyes,  and  his 
lips  moved.  "  What  is  it,  my  dear  fel 
low  ?  "  they  all  cried,  crowding  around 
him.  But  only  Knight  caught  the  whis 
per.  He  stood  up,  an  amazed  compre 
hension  in  his  eyes. 

Drawing  M.  de  Fourgon  aside,  he  said  : 
"I  understand  now!  I  see  why  he  did 
it !  "  and  hurried  away  abruptly,  in 
search  of  Miss  Venn. 


STORIES    OF    THE    SOUTH 


,  The  next  morning  M.  Tirar  was  carried 
out  in  a  steamer-chair  to  the  gallery. 

He  was  the  hero  of  the  day.  The  whole 
household,  from  Madame  Dessaix  to  the 
black  pickaninnies,  buzzed  about  him. 
Miss  Venn  came  down  the  gallery,  beam 
ing,  flushed,  her  eyes  soft  with  tears.  She 
motioned  them  all  aside  and  sat  down  by 
him,  stroking  his  cold  hand  in  her  warm 
ones. 

"It  is  me  that  you  want,  Jose?  Not 
these  others  ?  Only  me  ?  " 

"  If  you  can  spare  for  me  a  little  time, 
Lucrezia  ?  "  he  said,  humbly. 

She  did  not  reply  for  so  long  that  he 
turned  and  looked  into  her  face. 

"  A  little  time?  All  of  the  time,"  she 
whispered. 

Jose  started  forward.  His  chilled 
heart  had  scarcely  seemed  to  beat  since 
he  was  taken  from  the  water.  Now  it  sent 
the  blood  hot  through  his  body. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  child  ?  "  he  said, 


TIRAR   Y    SOULT 


sternly.     "  Think  \vhat  you  say.     It  is  oM 

Jose.     Do  you  mean ?  " 

"Yes;  and  I  always  meant  it,"  she 
said,  quietly.  "Why,  there  are  only  us 
left — you  and  me.  And  Chiquita,"  she 
added,  laughing. 


A  week  later  Mrs.  Knight  received  a 
letter  from  Robert,  with  the  story  of  his 
rescue.  She  cried  over  it  a  good  deal. 

"Though  I  don't  see  why  he  thinks  it 
such  an  extraordinary  thing  in  that  little 
man  to  do!  "  she  reflected.  "Anybody 
would  wish  to  save  Robert,  even  a  wild 
Mexican.  And,  why  upon  earth,  because 
his  life  was  in  danger,  he  should  have 
written  to  offer  it  to  Emma  Cramer, 
passes  me  !  She  hasn't  a  dollar." 

Through  the  window  she  saw  the  girl 
crossing  the  fields,  with  quick,  light  steps. 

"  She's  heard  from  him  !  She's  com 
ing  to  tell  me.  Well,  I  did  think  Robert 


STORIES    OF    THE    SOUTH 


would  have  married  well,  having  his  pick 

and  choice " 

But  the  widow's  heart  had  been  deeply 
moved.  "Poor  Emma!  She's  been  as 
faithful  as  a  dog  to  Robert.  If  she  has  no 
money,  she  will  save  his  as  an  heiress 
would  not  have  done.  Providence  orders 
all  things  right,"  she  thought,  relenting. 
"  If  that  girl  has  not  put  on  her  best  white 
dress  on  a  week-day  !  How  glad  she 
must  be  !  I'll  go  and  meet  her,  I  guess. 
She  has  no  mother  now,  to  kiss  her,  or 
say  God  bless  her,  poor  child  !  "  and  she 
hurried  to  the  gate. 


STORIES  FROM  SCRIHNER 
* 

STORIES  OF 

NEW  YORK 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
1893 


In  this  series  of  little  books,  issued  under  the 
general  title  "  Stones  from  Scribner,"  the  purpose 
has  been  to  gather  together  some  of  the  best  and 
most  entertaining  short  stories  written  for  Scrib- 
ner's  Magazine  during  the  past  few  years,  and  to 
preserve  them  in  dainty  volumes  grouped  under 
attractive  subjects  and  decorated  by  a  few  illus 
trations  to  brighten  the, pages. 

The  set  as  arranged  consists  of  six  volumes,  the 


first  two  appearing  together  and  the  other  four 
at  intervals  of  about  a  month,  as  follows  : 

Stories  of  New  York. 
Stories  of  the  Railway. 
Stories  of  the  South. 
Stories  of  the  Sea. 
Stories  of  Italy. 
Stories  of  the  Army. 

The  books  are  furnished  in  three  bindings,  the 
paper  being  the  same  in  all.  Each  edition  is  pre 
pared  with  great  care,  and  every  effort  has  been 
made  to  secure  an  example  of  book-making  as 
dainty  and  perfect  as  possible. 

The  paper  edition  is  enclosed  in  a  transparent 
wrapper,  fastened  by  a  gold  seal  which  should  re 
main  unbroken  until  the  book  reaches  the  hands 
of  the  reader.  Price,  50  cents  a  volume. 

The  cloth  edition  has  gilt  top  and  rough  edges. 
Price.  75  cents  a  volume. 

The  half  calf  edition  is  bound  in  the  best  leather 
and  in  two  colors  —  blue  and  claret  —  gilt  top. 
Price,  $1.50  a  volume. 

Orders  for  the  entire  set  may  be  sent  to  tJie 
publishers  or  to  any  bookseller. 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS,  New  York. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWEE 
LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


LIBRARY  USE 

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